


Tell Me Anything

by nerdwegian



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Choking, Comeplay, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Self-Destructive Behavior, Subdrop, Subspace, Unnegotiated Kink, everyone's an asshole to each other, lack of aftercare, please read the note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2617826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdwegian/pseuds/nerdwegian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's world falls apart on a Wednesday.</p><p>Phil Coulson is not dead, rebuilding SHIELD, and somehow failed to tell Clint about either of these things. Needing a distraction and a release, Clint turns to Bucky Barnes. Bucky has no idea what he's signed up for, and sooner or later it will come crashing down around Clint, he knows. The problem is, he can't bring himself to care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains: drunk sex, unnegotiated kink, dub con, subspace/subdrop with a lack of aftercare, choking, comeplay, and plenty of other self-destructive behavior. Please read with your own self-care in mind. Clint/Bucky takes up the majority of the fic, but Clint/Coulson is the emotional endgame.
> 
> Thank you so much to [torakowalski](archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski) for the support and the wonderful, speedy beta job. <333 Thank you to [jesseofthenorth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseofthenorth) for the awesome art, and for being incredibly patient. And finally, thank you to the Marvel Bang mods. \o/
> 
> [Go to the art!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2617925)

Clint's world falls apart on a Wednesday.

He's back early from a solo mission, pleased with himself over how quickly he'd wrapped things up in Tokyo. He'd even taken his sweet time coming home, setting aside some time to himself, using the modified Quinjet Tony had designed to doing loops somewhere above Utah, reveling in the feeling of freedom.

The years since the battle of New York have been rough. He'd lost SHIELD and lost Fury, and that was on top of losing Phil--not to mention almost losing his fucking mind. The echo of Loki still sings in him sometimes, but he's learned to push it down, ignore it. Learned to smile, despite it, and feel happiness again.

Things are finally looking up. Since Steve came to live in the Tower with his whatever-the-fuck Bucky is to him, they've started to grow closer. A real unit. A team.

It's a novel feeling.

So Clint's making his way through the hallways of Avengers Tower, frowning when he can't find anyone. "Hey, JARVIS, where is everyone?"

There's a pause before JARVIS answers, which is odd in and of itself, and then he says, "I believe Captain Rogers is in conference room 1703, but my monitors have been temporarily disabled in that area, so I am unable to confirm."

That makes Clint's frown deepen. "Disabled? By whom?"

Another pause. "Unable to confirm."

That's worrying. Clint drops his bag where he stands and immediately gets his bow and quiver out, before breaking into a jog. "JARVIS, where are the others?"

"Mr. Stark is currently in Malibu with Ms. Potts, and Dr. Banner is in the lab downstairs. Ms. Romanoff and Thor are not presently in the Tower; their whereabouts are unknown."

"Call Bruce up here," Clint says, taking the stairway instead of the elevator. "Tell him to hurry. Contact Tony and let him know what's going on. And try to find out who disabled your security system, huh?"

"As you wish," JARVIS says, and then doesn't speak again for a while. That's fine; Clint's busy anyway. He moves quickly through the hallway and lounges, eyes scanning his surroundings suspiciously. There aren't many people who are capable of overriding JARVIS's security protocols, and even fewer now that SHIELD is gone.

Clint nocks an arrow as he approaches the conference room, frown deepening when he sees that the privacy settings have been turned on, the glass walls frosted. There's a hint of two shadows inside, but it's hard to see through the privacy filter, even for someone with Clint's vision; Stark's security measures are usually solid. Slowing down to creep silently across the floor, Clint hopes to hell he's just overreacting.

He's only a few feet away from the door when JARVIS says, "Mr. Barton, my audio monitors for conference room 1703 have been rebooted, and I have confirmed the presence of Captain Rogers there. However, I don't believe Captain Rogers wishes to be disturbed, at the moment."

That gives Clint pause. "What the hell?"

"Captain Rogers says to inform you he'll get everyone up to date as soon as he can, but for now he's in a private meeting."

Not only is that weird, it's worrying. Clint puts the arrow back in his quiver and walks directly up to the conference door, banging on the glass with a fist. "Hey Cap. You in there?"

No response.

"Cap!" Clint calls again, insistently.

"Mr. Barton--" JARVIS starts, but Clint just bangs on the door again. Something weird as fuck is going on and it gives him the creeps.

"What's going on?" Bruce asks, appearing behind Clint with a puzzled look.

"Something's rotten in the state of Denmark," Clint says, glaring at the frosted glass. "Steve's in there in a _private meeting_ and won't let us in, and won't let us know what the fuck is going on."

"Why is that worrisome?" Bruce asks.

"Wouldn't be," Clint says, gesturing upwards. "Except someone's disabled JARVIS's monitors in that room. We only just got audio back."

Bruce's face scrunches up in a frown not unlike Clint's own. "Hey JARVIS, can you open the door for us?"

There's a pause. "I'm sorry, Dr. Banner," JARVIS eventually says, but he doesn't offer up an explanation this time.

"So JARVIS doesn't work," Clint says, vaguely worried now. "Knocking doesn't work."

Bruce goes slightly green around the eyes. "You mean _your_ knocking doesn't work."

Clint smirks to hide the brief shiver that goes down his spine, and waits. JARVIS must have relayed the message, because the door finally opens, and Steve's head pokes out.

"This really isn't a good time," he says, face serious and eyebrows drawn tightly together.

Clint eyes him with suspicion, and exchanges a glance with Bruce. "Everything okay, Cap?" Clint asks. "What's with the secrecy?"

"We'll have a meeting when Tony gets back," Steve says, but then there's some sort of commotion behind him, a shadow moving behind the frosted glass, and Clint's heart rate spikes, because--

JARVIS says, "Mr. Stark is immediately returning to the tower," and--

Steve says to someone standing behind him, "This is not a good idea, this is not what we agreed--"

Clint blinks and breathes in slow motion, because coming to stand next to Steve, pushing open the door all the way, is Phil Coulson.

"So," Phil says, looking slightly awkward. Steve scowls at him. Any other day, Clint would enjoy Steve scowling, because a pissed off Steve is truly a beautiful experience, but right now, Clint needs everything he's got just to keep breathing.

"There's some things I need to tell you," Phil says, clearly addressing both Bruce and Clint, even though his eyes never leave Clint's. "I was hoping to have a meeting once everyone returns to the tower?"

Clint looks at Bruce, a feeling of numbness growing in his chest. He's half-afraid he's gone mad, that all the months he's worked so hard on telling himself he's gotten better, that things have gotten easier to deal with, have been a much bigger lie than he thought. He's half afraid he's finally started hallucinating Phil. But Bruce's face shows shock, which means Clint's probably not hallucinating, and Clint dimly feels disappointed at that.

"Clint--" Phil starts to say, taking a step towards Clint, and _that's_ just not okay. Panic surges in Clint's throat, and he practically flails for a moment, trying to back away.

The thunder and lightning makes everyone jump a little as Thor sweeps in, Mjolnir still swinging in his hand, but slowing. When he sees Phil, his eyes grow wide. "Sorcery?"

Phil winces a little. "Not quite," he says. Then he looks like he might actually _explain_ things, and that's just--that's more than Clint can handle.

"I'm gonna--" he tries, and Phil looks like he will protest, except then Tony's voice rings out through the Tower, saying, "What the _hell_ ," and Phil gets a pinched look on his face.

Between Tony's outrage and Thor's entrance, they provide the perfect distraction, and Clint spins, and flees. Let the others handle it. Let the others handle everything. Clint just needs to get away, away, away, and he runs, sprints away, and hopes he can outrun the pain in his chest.

Running away isn't a good decision, he knows. But it's not like Clint's known for making great decisions, anyway. What else is new?

*

All Clint wants is to drink until he passes out and forgets about this whole day. Maybe even this whole year. The whole decade. He's not picky.

Nobody ever goes to the top floor bar, because the common areas there are much smaller than in the rest of the tower, and it's out of the way from almost everyone's living quarters. Clint likes it up there, however. He expects to be alone, so when he finds Bucky Barnes sitting by the bar with a bottle in front of him, he pauses a little, surprised.

"Hey," Bucky says, voice like gravel.

"Hey," Clint says back, briefly considering just hoarding as many bottles as he can and then going someplace where he won't have to actually talk to other people, but then he realizes that Bucky's a blank slate. Not only is he still working on the whole regaining his memory thing, but he didn't know Phil. Never even met him. No pitying or _understanding_ looks from Bucky, because Bucky wasn't around for any of that shit.

Clint slides into the seat next to Bucky and reaches for the bottle. "Give it."

Bucky regards him with narrowed eyes for a moment, before shrugging and handing over the bottle. It's whiskey, good stuff, and it goes down smooth. Clint wipes his mouth on his sleeve and then looks at Bucky again. He's still looking at Clint, dark circles under his eyes. His hair is tied back in a half ponytail, but it's tangled and knotted, and stray strands are hanging around his face.

 _You look the way I feel,_ is on the tip of Clint's tongue, but that would be admitting he's feeling shitty, so he doesn't say it.

Bucky just silently takes the bottle back, and they sit like that for a while, passing the bottle back and forth and drinking in turns. It's surprisingly nice, Bucky's presence solid and firm next to Clint, radiating misery in a way that makes Clint feel less alone. Clint's starting to get slightly tipsy, and just as he takes another swig, he realizes what a pair they make. Miserable snipers, both of them.

"Well," Clint says, when the bottle is empty. "This is a barrel of laughs."

Bucky's already eyeing the liquor shelf.

"So I know why _I'm_ up here drinking. What's your deal?" Clint asks when Bucky stands up and gets down four more bottles, two in each hand. Vodka, more whiskey, rum and more rum.

Bucky mutters something that may or may not have been actual words, setting down the bottles on the bar in front of them and then finding actual glasses and ice from the fancy-ass freezer drawer behind the bar.

"I'll drink to that," Clint says, pouring himself two fingers of vodka and raising his glass.

Bucky mutters some more and then sits back down, opting for rum for himself. The vodka is good too, but it also brings with it a landslide of memories. Late nights in safe houses with Natasha and Phil, drinking vodka while waiting for their evac, and arguing about which one of them was the worse enabler for drinking on the job.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Clint breathes deeply through his nose and tries very hard to force all thoughts of Phil Coulson from his mind. He can't process it right now.

"The thing is," Bucky says from next to Clint, and he sounds very annoyed. "The thing is, he keeps trying to _do stuff_ for me."

Blinking at Bucky, Clint frowns, distracted from his own misery for a moment. "Huh?"

"Steve," Bucky says, bitter and harsh. "He keeps trying to do stuff for me, when I just--I _can't_." Bucky stares hard at his glass, jaw clenching. "I'm suffocating."

Clint thinks about Steve, reaching for him, concern written in every line of his face, and knows exactly what Bucky means. Clint snorts a little in understanding.

"I don't want that," Bucky says quietly.

Before he can stop himself, Clint says, "Well, what do you want, then?"

Bucky's silent for several, long moments. Clint watches as Bucky's eyes slide shut and his knuckles go white around his glass. The metal hand rests carefully, casually on the bar; it doesn't have the same tells as Bucky's flesh and blood hand. Despite that, Clint can still feel the tension radiating off every part of Bucky's body, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

"Control," Bucky says eventually.

Clint blinks, and then bursts out laughing, he can't help himself.

Bucky's head snaps around, and he looks murderous. A small part of Clint's brain tries alerting him to the fact that he's apparently pissed off the Winter Soldier, but for the most part, Clint genuinely doesn't care right now. Bucky can be pissed if he wants. Bucky can throw Clint off the goddamn tower if he wants, Clint doesn't give a shit.

Bucky doesn't throw Clint off the tower.

"Something funny?" he snarls instead.

"We're a fuckin' pair," Clint says. "That's all." Because goddamn, they are. All Bucky wants is control; all Clint wants is the opposite. Clint wants the chaos and the surrender. He wants to sink into nothingness and shut off his brain. He wants his vision to blur and to sleep for a long, long time, and just--not wake up until the world makes sense again. 

Raising his glass, he clinks it against Bucky's, before draining it and reaching for more. He's done with the vodka. He goes for the rum.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Bucky watching him. When Clint's glass is full and he takes another big swallow, one corner of Bucky's mouth tilts upwards in a bleak imitation of a smile.

 _Yeah,_ Clint thinks, mirroring the expression back at Bucky. That's probably as close to smiling as either of them will get tonight.

*

Clint honestly doesn't know who initiates the kiss. The world's gone wobbly at the edges and his body feels hot from the booze, and he's got Bucky pressed against him, mouth sealed against his, and he doesn't at all care how it happened, he just knows he wants more.

It's good, Bucky's a good kisser, and Clint's getting hard in his pants. From the way Bucky's shifting, it's clear Clint's not alone in feeling this way, and fuck, Clint bets getting laid would do them both good. Just some nice, no-strings sex, just a physical release, and the fact that this is Bucky Barnes, this is Steve's best friend, just somehow--doesn't seem to matter.

Bucky makes a noise, careful and hurt, but instead of pulling back, he pushes harder against Clint, rocks against him and darts his tongue out. It's as if Bucky's terrified yet running headfirst towards the source of his fear. That's a feeling Clint can relate to. He runs his hands up Bucky's arms, feeling hard muscle under one palm and hard metal under the other, and thinks, Yeah. They're not so different, the two of them.

When Bucky stumbles a little as they slide off the barstools, Clint breaks the kiss so he can press Bucky back against the bar, grabbing his wrists loosely to help steer him.

In an instant, Bucky's body language changes, from defiantly stubborn to angry, and a split second later, Clint finds himself on his back on the floor, the Winter Soldier glaring down at him.

"Don't do that," Bucky says, words clipped and voice hard.

"Do what?" Clint asks, bringing one hand up to rub at his head, but immediately getting it pinned down by Bucky's flesh and blood hand.

"Grab me!" Bucky snaps, which is kinda rude considering he's doing that very same thing to Clint right that second. Clint's about to say so, when he suddenly remembers. _Control._

"I don't like it," Bucky says, slowly and deliberately, as the Winter Soldier fades from his face.

Clint squints up at him, takes in the way Bucky's breathing is still too quick, too shallow, the way Bucky's still holding onto Clint's wrist, and the erection that Bucky's still obviously sporting. "What do you want then?" he asks, even though he suspects he already knows the answer.

For a long moment, Bucky doesn't say anything at all, brow still furrowed, and Clint can almost see the confusion trying to break through on his face.

WIthout breaking eye contact, Clint raises his other hand above his head, slowly so Bucky can track its movement. Resting it lightly on the floor next to where Bucky's still holding onto his other wrist, Clint smirks up at Bucky.

"What about something like this?" Clint asks, heart pounding with anticipation. Bucky's metal fingers twitch on the floor. Clint immediately imagines having _those_ fingers wrapped around his wrist, getting held down and in place by _that_ hand and for a moment, suddenly he can't breathe with how much he wants that.

Bucky doesn't use his metal hand, but his human hand does carefully shift around Clint's wrist, so he can snake one thumb across to nudge Clint's other wrist. It doesn't actually give him any hold on Clint whatsoever, but Clint still immediately relaxes all his muscles as best he can, focuses on going limp and compliant underneath Bucky. Above him, Bucky sucks in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, and Clint smirks again. Bucky's not dumb. Bucky may have no clue what the fuck he's doing, but he _gets it_.

"So," Clint says, confidence rising. "My place?"

Above him, Bucky's face doesn't change, but his hand tightens around Clint's wrist.

*

When Clint wakes up the next morning, it's with a hangover that feels just right. The bed is cool on the side where Bucky had been, and it's nothing more than Clint expected. It's a bit of a relief, to be honest, because Clint's never been good at morning afters, and even less so when fucking friends of friends.

He dresses quickly and pretends not to be disappointed that he doesn't seem to have any lingering marks anywhere.

*

"So yesterday was a barrel of laughs," Tony remarks, when Clint enters the communal kitchen an hour later.

"Yeah?" Clint asks, playing dumb. "What happened, did you blow something up again?"

Clint's met with silence, and he intentionally doesn't look at where Bruce and Thor are sitting at the big table, or at Tony. He can feel their eyes on him, but he ignores it.

"Clint," Bruce says. His voice is gentle. It makes Clint want to punch a wall. He wonders if this is how Bruce feels all the time; right at the edge of snapping.

"I'm fine," Clint says automatically, wanting to end this conversation before it has a chance to begin.

"Yeah, you seem it," Tony snorts, before crossing his arms. "Where were you last night? You bailed before I got there, and JARVIS wouldn't say where you were hiding."

"There are apparently a lot of things JARVIS won't say," Clint says, going straight for the coffee pot and hoping he'll avoid having to answer any more dumb questions if he's hiding behind the biggest coffee mug they've got. He tries not to blame JARVIS quite as much as he wants to. An AI does what he's told, Clint reminds himself.

If Tony or anyone else has anything more to say, they don't get the chance, because just then Steve arrives.

"There you are," Steve says to Clint, and then his face does that twisty thing Clint usually only sees when Bucky's around. "Are you okay?"

Clint can't take any more concern, so he turns away and just grunts in greeting without actually looking up and hopes that'll be enough.

"Good morning," says Phil, and Clint nearly chokes on his first mouthful of coffee.

Heart pounding in his chest, he turns around to find Phil walking in. He comes to stand next to Steve at the head of the table, looking every inch the bland Agent's Agent Clint first encountered when he joined SHIELD, all those years ago. At Steve's other side stands Natasha, and she's looking straight at Clint with an expression Clint can't decipher. In fact, everyone suddenly seems to be looking at him. Avoiding meeting their eyes, he sits down at the table instead and tries his best to look as if there's nothing wrong. As if he doesn't feel nausea and anger simmer beneath the surface again.

Phil's eyes roam across the group of people without hesitating even once, and Clint wants to flip the whole fucking table. None of them seem particularly shocked to see Phil, though they don't seem particularly pleased, either. Suddenly Clint regrets leaving last night. He wonders what Tony said when he arrived and found out. Hell, he wonders if Tony already knew.

He wonders if he was the last person to be told.

"Is everyone here?" Phil asks.

"Well, Bucky's not awake yet, I don't think," Steve says, and Clint resists the urge to snort into his coffee cup, "and Rhodey and Sam don't normally stay here--"

"That's all right," Phil says, tone pleasant as can be. Clint wants to punch him in his stupid, smug face. "I trust you can convey the information for me, Captain Rogers?"

"Sure, I guess," Steve says, sounding slightly miffed that Bucky's clearly not considered part of the core group, but then sitting down and sighing heavily. "So. Guys. Looks like SHIELD's still around."

Tony puts down the piece of overly buttered toast he was chewing on, and wipes his hands on his napkin. "Do we need to assemble?"

"They're the good guys now," Natasha says, in a tone that clearly suggests she's not trusting it any more than the rest of them is, then adds, as an afterthought, "Again. Coulson's the Director."

Clint has to look away again, and stares hard at his cup. Director Coulson.

"Understandably, we're under heavy scrutiny at the moment," Phil says. "We're working on reestablishing relations with both foreign and domestic political and military powers. Which is why I'm here."

"SHIELD would like to-- _liaise_ with the Avengers," Steve says, and if it was anyone else speaking, the hesitation would have made the sentence smack of distaste. "I've already made my feelings on the matter quite clear to Agent--to Director Coulson, but it's not just my call to make."

Silence settles around the table for a moment, and Clint wonders if everyone can hear him as he desperately tries to control his breathing, or if it's just him.

"So, collaboration between SHIELD and the Avengers would make you look good," Bruce says, thoughtfully, the first to break the silence. "It would show that you're trustworthy, given the Avengers' current favorable status with the general public. What would it do for us?"

"It would be a mutually beneficial relationship of power exchange," Phil says, which Clint suspects is just bureaucrat-speak for _bullshit bullshit bullshit_. "It would make you more accountable in the eyes of the general public, we would be able to assist with bankrolling and gear--"

"I take care of the bankrolling and the gear," Tony says, sounding offended.

"Our engineers are among the best in the world," Phil says, but that just makes Tony scoff.

"I'll hire them, then. Pay them better than you could dream of."

"As I was saying," Phil says pointedly. There's a part of Clint that wants to smile. He's deeply familiar with that tone. Phil's face never really changed, but Clint's known him for too long. He knows all of Phil's microexpressions, and Phil's patience is being tested. But then he comes crashing back to reality, and remembers that it's been years since he last saw Phil, and Phil let him think he was dead, and now Phil's standing in the Avengers Towers as if nothing ever happened, as if _they_ never happened, saying shit like, "provide extra security for both parties," and "unified front against Congress."

Clint doesn't want it to happen, but Phil's always been persuasive. Clint can see how everyone's faces slowly change, from distrust and skepticism, to reluctant acceptance.

In the end, Steve stands up again and shakes Phil's hand, and Phil says, "You won't regret it, Captain Rogers."

Steve's eyes narrow ever so slightly as he says, "See that I don't."

Natasha has never once looked away from Clint, and he wants to crawl under the table and punch the floor.

"Avengers," Phil says, nodding to them, and then leaving.

Clint watches Phil's back as he disappears out the door, and wants to brain himself on the table because even now, a pathetic part of him wants to cry out for Phil, wants to stop him and run to him and never let go.

Fuck his entire life.

"You okay?" Natasha asks.

Clint hates her a little bit, because it effectively draws everyone's attention to him again. He swallows down his anger and his bitterness, pastes on his most innocent expression, knowing that he's off his game and probably won't actually fool any of them, and says, "Me? Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You didn't really give any input on this situation with SHIELD," she says. She's onto him, he knows.

"Didn't have any input to give," he says.

"Clint," she warns, gently, but seriously. "SHIELD was our home."

Clint looks at his coffee and pretends not to notice the looks everyone's giving him now. He shrugs. "It's fine, Nat."

When she doesn't push further, thank god, and nobody else says anything either, Clint stands up and takes his coffee cup with him. He's not hungry anymore. "Everything's fine," he repeats as he leaves the kitchen. He can feel their eyes bore into his back, but he ignores it, the same way he ignores so many other things these days.

*

Phil seems to pop up everywhere after that. It's ironic, Clint thinks, considering the lengths he clearly went to to keep his mysterious return to the land of the living a secret. But now that the cat's out of the bag, Phil doesn't seem to care anymore. The only reason Clint doesn't run screaming from every room Phil enters, is the stubborn insistence that he's _fine_ , there's nothing wrong, and eventually shit will return to normal, right? In the meantime, he'll just deal with Phil being fucking _everywhere_.

Phil shows up at the gym when Clint's sparring with Natasha, asking them both to please sign some urgent forms from the NSA. He shows up for team dinner, when Thor's cooked up some sort of pork stew that Clint immediately loses all appetite for, in order to brief everyone about his latest meeting with the Vice President. Phil even shows up for movie night, which that particular night only consists of Steve, Bucky, Clint and Pepper watching Jurassic Park.

"Phil," Pepper says, pleased, because she seems to be the only one who seems genuinely and consistently happy to see him these days.

"I can't stay," Phil says, which makes Clint have to hold back a sigh of relief. "I'm just here to inform you that you're all expected to attend a hearing tomorrow morning."

That makes Steve groan in annoyance, head dropping back against the couch. Bucky doesn't react at all, eyes glued to the TV.

"Yeah, I know," Phil says. "Sorry, Captain Rogers."

"Congress?" Pepper asks.

"Not this time," Phil says. "New York City Council."

"Oh, good," Bucky says sarcastically. "They probably want to forgive you guys for all the public property damage you cause every time Hulk gets involved. Maybe give you an award. Or cake."

"He speaks," Phil remarks dryly, which makes Steve sit up and bristle. Phil quickly holds out a hand before Steve can draw a breath for ranting. "Don't worry, I just meant it's good to see more of Sergeant Barnes."

"Not so much a Sergeant anymore," Bucky mumbles, but Phil ignores it. If this was four years ago, Clint would give Phil so much shit. Standing in the same room as two of his childhood heroes, his role models. But it's not four years ago, it's now, and Clint says nothing.

"I'll have you all collected tomorrow morning, 7:30 a.m. sharp," Phil says, and Clint thinks for a moment that's it, that Phil will leave and Clint can go back to watching his movie--but then Phil turns to Clint.

"Barton, might I have a word? In private?"

Clint considers for a second, the implications of telling Phil to go fuck himself in front of Pepper, Steve and Bucky, versus the unbearableness of actually having to talk to Phil.

"Clint?" Steve says when Clint doesn't immediately answer, looking suspiciously between Phil and Clint. Bucky's looking too, but he's being a lot more subtle about it. Steve's being blatant on purpose, Clint realizes; a non-verbal warning that, much to Clint's surprise, seems to be aimed at Phil.

"Sure," Clint says, pushing off the couch and ignoring how Bucky's still looking carefully at him out of the corner of his eye.

He follows Phil out of the common area, and jerks his head sideways towards the stairs, when Phil tries to lead them to the elevator. When they're in the stairwell, Phil draws a breath that's uncharacteristically shaky, and says, quietly, "Clint--"

"Shut up," Clint says, spinning to face Phil in the process. He bites out the words, voice more than a hiss but less than a growl, and Phil reels backwards a little. "I'm not interested in anything you might have to say to me that isn't directly related to the Avengers, SHIELD, or the--relationship between the two." Clint stumbles over the word _relationship_ , and hates himself for it.

Phil's face remains stoic for several moments, before his lips thin. "All right," he says, although not without a slight note of resignation in his voice. "The meeting tomorrow is to iron out the legalities of both the Avengers and SHIELD operating within city limits, alongside local law enforcement."

"Swell," Clint grits out. "I'll be there."

He starts to walk away, taking the steps up to his floor two at a time, when Phil's voice stops him.

"Can you do this? Can you work with me?"

Clint doesn't look back at Phil, because he _can't_. He's scared of what he'll see on Phil's face. Distrust. Suspicion. Anything that might indicate that he's worried Clint's too weak to handle this.

Clint wants to punch Phil in his stupid face.

"Will you be on comms with us?" he asks, voice steady, so steady. "Will it be like before?"

There's a pregnant pause, then the barest hint of a sigh. "No. The Avengers operate as an independent unit. There will be times you will be asked to debrief with SHIELD, but there will probably be times you'll be asked to debrief with other law enforcement agencies, as well. Nobody will be on comms with you when you go out on missions."

 _I won't tell you what to do_ , goes unspoken.

"Good," Clint says, and then leaves before Phil can say anything else.

He ends up circling back downstairs via the elevator to rejoin the others, and then doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He feels on edge. He ends up standing in the middle of the floor, hands on his hips, as he tries to calm down.

"You know," Steve says carefully from the couch, not looking away from the movie, "this whole SHIELD liaison thing is something we all have to agree on. We're a team. If one of us--any one of us--has a problem with it, we call the whole thing off."

"It's fine, Captain," Clint grits out.

Pepper hesitates for a moment before saying, "When I--sometimes I see a therapist, when this whole superhero business gets too much."

"I don't need a therapist," Clint snaps, instantly regretting it. Pepper's one of the best ones among them, and she doesn't deserve his anger.

Steve, however, seems interested. "That working out for you?"

Pepper smiles at him and nods. "It's definitely been a big help. Her name is Dr. Clock, she has a practice in Long Island."

"Bucky," Steve says, nudging Bucky's knee, movie seemingly forgotten for now, "there's a--"

"I don't need a therapist, either," Bucky says, sounding as annoyed as Clint feels.

"I wasn't trying to--" Steve starts, and that's as far as he gets before Bucky shoots up off the couch.

"Buck, come on," Steve says plaintively, but Bucky's already striding towards the door. As he passes Clint, Clint catches his eye. Bucky's step falters just for a moment, before he nods--and then he's gone.

Sighing heavily, Steve sinks back against the couch cushions. "I wasn't suggesting that he--that--"

"I know," Pepper says soothingly.

"He's just--he seems so angry all the time."

Clint resists the urge to snort. He knows the feeling.

 

*

Clint gives Bucky five minutes before following him, finding him waiting in the hallway leading to Clint's quarters. "Mine?" Clint asks, arching an eyebrow.

Bucky nods, mouth set in a determined line and eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

There's a faint voice at the back of Clint's mind telling him this is maybe a bad idea, and maybe he does need therapy--maybe they both do--but he pushes it back. He knows he's a colossal fuck-up, but at least he's got Bucky. At least he's got this.

They make it into Clint's bedroom before facing each other, standing at almost opposite ends of the room, unsure of how to proceed from there. Bucky's got both hands clenched into fists at his sides, like he's restraining himself, and Clint can see the way his chest moves as he breathes. Long, controlled breaths.

"How do you want to do this?" Clint asks. "What do you want?"

"I--don't know," Bucky says, with all the air of a man who _does_ know what he wants, but doesn't want to admit it.

"You can--tell me what to do," Clint says. "Anything you want."

Bucky frowns a little, just a barely-there movement of his eyebrows. "What do you...?"

Clint takes a breath, heart skipping a beat in his chest. "You're in control," he breathes, and it feels like relief to admit it.

Bucky stares at Clint for several, long moments, and Clint swallows. The air is thick with tension. Clint's itching to do something, anything, to show Bucky that he wants this, to show Bucky how good he can be--but he forces himself to stay still. Forces himself to wait for directions.

Something changes in Bucky's eyes.

"Kneel," Bucky says, but his voice wavers a little as he says it, as if he's not entirely sure of himself.

Clint maintains eye contact and sinks to his knees, hands resting on his thighs. Bucky's nostrils flare just a little bit, and Clint doesn't understand why Bucky seems so surprised that Clint's following his orders. Doesn't he realize that Clint will do whatever Bucky wants him to do? That Clint meant it when he said, _Anything you want_?

Bucky takes a hesitant step towards Clint, and then another, more assured one, and then another--until he's standing directly in front of Clint, his crotch right in front of Clint's face. Clint still keeps eye contact, but in his peripheral vision, he can see the bulge at Bucky's crotch. Clint lets his lips part, just a little, and he knows what he looks like when he's like this. He knows Bucky will see it for the invitation that it is.

"Unzip me," Bucky says, and even though the words are quiet, his voice is confident this time. Clint gets Bucky's pants open, the rasping sound of the zipper loud in the silence. When he gets a hand around Bucky's cock, mostly already hard but growing harder still, and pulls it out of the open V of his fly, Bucky gasps above him, and his breathing grows heavy.

"Keep your hands on your thighs," Bucky says, then changes his mind and says, "Actually, uh, keep them behind your back," and it's like he read Clint's mind. Clint wants to grin, because Bucky's definitely warming up to this whole giving orders thing. Hands behind his back, fingers lacing together, Clint keeps looking at Bucky, keeps watching for miniscule shifts in his face, the way Bucky's eyes flicker down to Clint's lips and back again.

Using one hand to grip his dick by the base, Bucky pushes his erection down and nudges it against Clint's lips. Clint's tongue is halfway out to taste before he realizes Bucky hasn't actually told him it's okay yet, and he freezes, lips slightly parted against the head of Bucky's cock--waiting.

"Open," Bucky murmurs, and Clint obeys.

Bucky's cock is nice. Clint likes it. He likes the weight of it, the taste of it; musky and a little salty. He knows he must make a pretty picture, eyes wide open and looking up as Bucky's cock slides into his mouth and across his tongue. When Bucky's cockhead nudges the back of Clint's throat, Bucky lets go of his dick, pulling out ever so slightly, before reaching down to cup Clint's jaw with his flesh and blood hand. His fingers stroke down Clint's throat, and he isn't exactly being gentle, but he's not really pressing down, either. Just touching.

"Deeper."

Clint works on relaxing his jaw, relaxing his throat, as Bucky pushes inward again. Clint's good at deep throating, and he wants Bucky to know that. Wants to know what it'll do to Bucky, to see the entire length of him disappear into Clint's mouth. Clint works his jaw and thinks _Yes_ and _Please_ , and then Bucky's pubic hair is tickling Clint's lips and nose, cock as far down Clint's throat as it will go. Bucky's fingers press a little firmer against Clint's throat, as if he's feeling for his own cock, and it makes Clint's gut burn hot as he suddenly realizes exactly how painfully hard he is in his own pants. Funny how his own arousal seems to sneak up on him where Bucky is concerned.

Clint blinks up at him, tries to read the expression on Bucky's face. His mouth is open and he's breathing heavily, looking down at Clint with wide eyes, but Clint isn't sure what Bucky's seeing. He tongues the underside of Bucky's cock as best he can, ignores his lungs screaming at him for air, and he thinks Bucky likes it.

He gets confirmation when Bucky groans a little, just a faint noise, but it encourages Clint. He doesn't move, because Bucky hasn't told him he can yet, but he swallows around Bucky's hard length as best he can. It drags another groan out of Bucky, and he slowly pulls back. Clint gasps for air around Bucky's cock, breathes hard through his nose, and then Bucky's pushing back in, not stopping until his pelvis hits Clint's nose.

"Stay," Bucky says, sounding tense, and Clint does, stomach twisting at the order.

Bucky's metal hand slides into Clint's hair, fingers curling around his short strands and pulling, and Clint's head is spinning. He's got both of Bucky's hands on him, cupping his jaw and pulling his hair, and he wants Bucky to start thrusting, to take what he needs and just fuck Clint's face already! Still, he doesn't move, just holds Bucky in his throat like Bucky told him to, and resolutely doesn't think about his own hard cock.

Bucky makes a noise above him, a little grunt, and then finally--finally--starts moving. He's careful at first, hips pulling back just a little bit before hitching forward, almost as if he's trying to hold back, but doesn't quite manage. It doesn't last long however, Bucky's thrusts picking up speed, and it's perfect. Clint sucks in deep breaths through his nose when he has the chance, but otherwise just lets Bucky have complete control. It's hotter than it should be, feeling like he's just there for Bucky to use, and it's making him feel like someone's stuffed his head full of cotton. His world narrows down to this, to Bucky's cock in his mouth, to doing what Bucky tells him to do. Clint's own cock is leaking so much in his pants it's creating an uncomfortable wet spot, but he doesn't care.

Focusing on keeping his throat relaxed, Clint has to close his eyes, even though he tries not to, as they fill with tears. His hands are starting to tingle behind his back, fingers clenching tightly together, and Clint wants so desperately to be able to cling onto something more solid, but he doesn't think it's okay to touch Bucky, because Bucky said to keep his hands behind his back.

Above him, Bucky makes a sound that's more growl than anything, and then his fingers tug on Clint's hair, and his thrusts get deep, long, rough. His pelvis hits Clint's nose on every instroke, and Clint's starting to feel vaguely dizzy with oxygen deprivation, pressure building in his temples. He's drooling, he knows, his chin slick with his own spit or with Bucky's precome or with both, he's not sure, but he loves it all the same. He can feel himself sinking, he's hyper aware of it, but he doesn't care, at the moment. All he wants is for the world to go hazy and soft around the edges. He longs for it and loves this, loves every thrust, the feel of Bucky in his mouth, loves the taste of precome he can taste every time Bucky pulls back.

One of Bucky's feet moves forward to help him keep his balance, and it makes the movements of his hips rock Clint's body a little. Clint strains to stay in place, struggles to stay upright, and be what Bucky needs; nothing more than a warm mouth to fuck into and use.

Bucky's fingers squeeze Clint's jaw and tighten in his hair to hold his head in place, and Bucky curls forward. His abdomen touches Clint's forehead, and he's close, he has to be, because he's breathing heavily and his metal hand is painful in Clint's hair and his thrusts are getting erratic.

"Swallow," Bucky gasps, an order given on the brink of orgasm, as he unfolds himself and straightens up again. It sends him deeper, and Clint makes a weak gagging sound as he chokes on Bucky's cock; he can't help it. His eyes fly open and he looks up at Bucky, meets his gaze and blinks through his tears. He desperately wants Bucky to come down his throat, he doesn't want to wait, but since his mouth is full and his hands have to stay behind his back, he has no way of letting Bucky know. But he wants it, he wants Bucky to come now, he wants that _so_ much--

Bucky groans, long and loud, as his eyes slide shut, before pushing hard down Clint's throat and staying there, shaking through his orgasm. Clint closes his own eyes again and _feels_ Bucky come more than anything. The pulsing of Bucky's shaft on Clint's tongue, the warmth, the faintly uncomfortable tickling feeling of semen in his throat. Clint swallows and swallows, tears rolling down his cheeks, and then finally Bucky pulls out of his mouth and lets go of Clint, giving his head a shove in the process.

Clint almost loses his balance and has to catch himself with one arm. His mouth hangs open, jaw sore and sticky, as he gasps for air, sucks in huge lungfuls, and tries to process everything. It's difficult. He knows he's gone down, and he's dizzy with it, but he doesn't care. He's floating.

Forcing his eyes open, Clint watches Bucky, who's staggered back a few steps and is now leaning forward, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

"Was I--" Clint starts, then has to try again because his throat closes up on him. "Was that good?"

His voice is raw, like he's been screaming for days.

Bucky straightens up and looks at Clint with wide eyes, like he can't believe what they just did. Clint licks his lips.

"Was--yeah, Clint, yeah, that was good," Bucky says, a slight note of disbelief in his voice, and Clint manages a weak smile. It doesn't sound like Bucky expected it to be good, but Clint seems to have done okay anyway, at least. He thinks next time, Bucky can come on Clint's face, if he wants to, maybe he'll like that better.

"We can do this again," Clint says carefully. "Anytime you want to."

Bucky gives him a cautious smile, and then his eyes drift down to Clint's crotch. "We're not done yet, are we?"

Clint wants to cry, because Bucky will let him come? He licks his lips again. "I can take care of that myself. If you want. Or you can. Whatever you want, whatever." He knows he's stumbling over his words a little, but he already misses Bucky in his mouth, misses the way Bucky ordered him to swallow, and he feels a little bit like he's teetering on the edge of free falling.

"Whatever I want?" Bucky asks. There's something in his voice.

Clint nods. "Whatever you want."

"What about what you want?" Bucky asks, and it makes Clint laugh a little, raw and dry.

"I want what you want," Clint tells him honestly, sitting back to lean on both hands, hips moving just a little. It shifts his cock in his pants, and he shivers involuntarily. He's so close! "I _like_ what you want."

Bucky's eyes travel down to Clint's crotch again, almost as if to confirm that Clint is being truthful. Taking a step forward again, Bucky kneels down in front of Clint and gets his pants open. Clint's cock is slick with precome and he sucks in a sharp breath when Bucky's metal hand closes around it.

"Tell me what it is exactly that you like," Bucky demands, meeting Clint's eyes again as he slowly starts stroking Clint's cock.

Clint breathes hard, trembles with the effort not to come, and swallows. "I like when you tell me what to do," he says, holding Bucky's gaze. "I like doing what you tell me to do."

"Yeah, I already knew that," Bucky says, smiling a little, before his face turns serious. "What if I tell you to do something you don't like," he asks, and there's a dark note to the question, Clint knows, but he really wants Bucky to understand that it's not like that. Clint wants it all, everything Bucky is willing to give him, because Clint doesn't _get_ the other stuff. The safe stuff, the pieces of what Clint wants that wouldn't leave him feeling hollow inside, that stuff is not for Clint. That's for other people. _Better_ people.

"Trust me, I like it," Clint says, gasping as his cock twitches in Bucky's grip. "I like it."

"You liked it before," Bucky murmurs, eyes shifting down. "When I held you down. Got a little rough."

"Yeah," Clint agrees, nodding. "I liked that. I like it when you give me permission. I like feeling like I have to ask for it." He pauses, heat rising in his cheeks at his own words, because they're heavy in his mouth and hard to get out, but Bucky said he had to tell him what he liked. "I like it when you _take_ ," Clint eventually manages, and then nearly whimpers as Bucky's hand twists around his cockhead.

"Please," he begs, "please don't make me talk anymore, I just--please, I want to come."

Bucky's hand hasn't even picked up speed. He's just slowly stroking Clint, twisting a little on the upstroke and running his metal thumb under Clint's cockhead, but it's still making Clint's entire body burn with the need to come.

"You gonna come like this?" Bucky asks.

The vivid image of Bucky sucking him suddenly hits Clint's mind, and he moans. He wonders if he's allowed to ask for that? But then he quickly rejects the idea, because that's not what Bucky asked, so Clint just nods instead. "Yes," he says, "gonna come, gonna--"

Clint gasps, coming and shaking and feeling like his body is flying apart.

The first couple of spurts shoot pretty hard, and he gets jizz on Bucky's shirt, but Bucky doesn't seem to mind. The rest goes on Bucky's hand, sliding over the shiny metal of his fingers, and Clint trembles, moans, head swimming with both the visual, and everything he's feeling.

When Clint finally stops coming, Bucky drags his hand off Clint's cock, and then remains staring at it, watching the come slide across his knuckles and drip onto Clint's pants and onto the floor.

Panting, Clint pushes off with his hands to lean forward. He spreads his fingers across his thighs. His legs have fallen asleep; he's been on his knees for so long now. He doesn't care. The world is hazy and soft and his skin feels like it's humming.

Slowly meeting his eyes again, Bucky looks at him for several long moments, like he's considering, before he lifts his hand towards Clint's face.

"Clean it."

Clint's heart skips a beat.

Bucky doesn't move, and his gaze is steady. He's confident now, Clint realizes. He knows that he gets to tell Clint what to do, and it's like something loosens inside of Clint, shatters apart and lets him relax. He'll do what Bucky tells him to. Of course he will.

Clint keeps Bucky's gaze as he lens forward and licks across Bucky's hand, lapping up his own come and the taste of metal. Bucky's arm is almost completely silent except for the gears whirring with every shift of his fingers, but the room is quiet enough apart from the slick sounds Clint's making, that they can both hear it anyway. It almost seems to echo in the fog of Clint's mind, and he sucks at Bucky's fingers to get the last drops of himself out of the joints, ignoring how his jaw _aches_ , already sore and used.

When he's done, Bucky looks like he's considering going another round, heat in his eyes and lips slightly parted, but in the end, he just stands up and gives Clint a little half smile.

Clint wants to get up, he does, but Bucky hasn't told him he can yet, and his legs are well on their way to becoming completely numb anyway.

"This is, this is okay," Bucky says, almost sounding shy as he tucks himself away.

Clint feels relieved. "Good," he gets out, forcing the word past his teeth.

Bucky walks around the room, getting his pants zipped up and gathering up his jacket. Clint wishes he'd leave already. Expects him to, honestly, so it's a bit of a surprise when Bucky pauses by the door and looks--almost insecure.

"You gonna get up?" he asks.

Clint hesitates, not sure of how much to tell Bucky. "Eventually," he says, instead of telling Bucky how he feels like he's sitting on something fragile and porous, about to crumble apart and crash at any moment.

Bucky hesitates again. "Do--do other people... is this common?" he asks. "What we do?"

Clint tries to sort out his thoughts. He's not quite sure how to answer that. He doesn't know how to explain all the layers that makes up his desires and wants and what he has with Bucky, now. "People do this," is what he settles on, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Oh, okay," Bucky says, and he doesn't sound entirely convinced, but there's definite relief in his voice, too.

The sound of the door closing behind him is like a period at the end of a sentence. Like the credits ending after a movie. _Finally_ , Clint thinks.

He takes a deep breath and then slumps sideways on the floor, rolling half onto his back until he's staring sightlessly at the ceiling. He'll get up soon, rub some of the circulation back into his legs and clean up. He will. He'd just like to rest for a little first.

*

It's not the first time Clint's had to claw his way up from subspace by himself, but it's been years since the last time. Since before Phil. Since way before--everything, Clint thinks.

He sleeps a lot. Takes hot showers that nearly scald his skin. Wraps himself so tightly in his covers that he barely can move, and thinks about nothing. 

By the time his headaches have faded to a manageable level of throbbing and he emerges from his quarters on the third day, he feels slightly more human, and just a little bit more numb to the shitshow of his life. It's nice, in a distant sort of way. And if the others look at him a little oddly, Clint pretends not to see it.

*

It takes another week for SHIELD to call on them.

The call to assemble goes off in Clint's room, and he grabs his quiver and goes downstairs to where several of the others are already gathered around one of the big screens in the communal living room.

"There's something weird happening," Phil says from the screen, face tight. "And where weird is concerned, it's probably more of a job for you than for us."

"Can I help?" Bucky asks, coming to stand next to Steve, though he's addressing Phil.

Phil looks like he wants to say yes, but still shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes, there's still some debate about your--status."

Steve's face darkens. "You mean there are still people out there who thinks he's still the Winter Soldier."

Bucky grunts and turns away. "Whatever. Have fun."

"I have things to say about this," Steve says, which immediately makes Bucky turn back around.

"You? Maybe _I_ have things to say about this," he grumbles.

"Bucky, I'm not trying to--"

"If we could focus?" Phil says from the screen, which shuts both Steve and Bucky up immediately. Anger surges in Clint's chest too, for the commanding tone in Phil's voice, for the way he acts as if he's still in charge of anyone in the room. Clint catches Bucky's eye, and Bucky just gives a tiny shake of his head in resignation. Sighing heavily, he shuffles out of the room without a word. Steve watches him go, before turning back to Phil.

"Captain Rogers, your team is needed at the Botanical Gardens," Phil says, then adds, like an afterthought, "please."

Clint resists the urge to snark. _Oh, please. The magic word and everything._ He just wordlessly attaches his quiver to his back. He's got a job to do.

*

Clint's vision, as good as it is, doesn't extend to the back of his head. He doesn't know how the overgrown mushroom-like creature even got up to his nest, but it's the last thing on his mind as he takes a solid whack to the head and nearly tumbles off the edge. 

Spinning around, Clint's fingers are already letting an arrow go, when the mushroom puffs out a cloud of spores or gas or _something_ foul, and Clint's entire chest tightens. His arrow hits its target, of course, point blank range, but Clint's lungs are already feeling heavy and sluggish and he tries to calm his breathing.

"Cap, the 'shrooms have got some sort of gas," Clint says into the comm links. "And I don't think these are the kind of 'shrooms that'll get you high. Keep your distance."

"Noted," Steve says, voice tight. "Thor, Iron Man, Hawkeye, you guys have the best long range abilities. You're on mushroom duty. Widow and I will handle the--whatever the hell these things are. Hulk can take care of the trees in the back, right?"

Hulk's roar echoes across the Botanical Garden, and Clint sees the streak of Tony's suit dive towards the east end.

"Are you okay, Hawkeye?" Steve asks.

Clint considers for a split second, takes the time to breathe once, twice, to test his lungs, and then decides it'll have to be good enough. "I'm fine," he says, then spies movement out of the corner of his eye. "Civilians coming from the Herbarium!"

Then he's back in the momentum of battle, firing three arrows in rapid succession to take out the mushrooms making their way towards the fleeing people.

His chest feels mostly okay, though something's up with his lung capacity, he can tell. Clint knows he really should ask for an extraction and medical, but seriously, what the hell is he supposed to do about all the people swarming out of the Herbarium? Iron Man looks busy to the east, and he can see Thor's lightning crackle to the west, and _someone_ has to stop the mushrooms from clubbing people to death. "Might as well be me," he mumbles to himself.

So Clint focuses hard and tries not to notice how he's slowly breaking out into a sweat that's decidedly not from exertion. He can't really do much about some of the plants below. The vines don't seem to care much about his arrows, and his explosive tips are out with so many civilians around. The mushrooms are the easiest targets, falling over with just regular tips, so that's what he tries to focus on.

And sure, okay, he feels like shit warmed over, but all things considered, he's holding it together. It's getting difficult to breathe, and he feels like he's definitely running a fever, but his vision remains stable--and that's all he needs, really.

"How are things going on your side?" Steve asks, and Clint isn't sure who he's talking to--possibly everyone--but Thor's the first to answer.

"I was not aware Asgard had sentient plant forms, but I am faring well. They do not seem to like Mjolnir much."

"I hate roses," Natasha grits out, and she sounds supremely pissed. Clint would laugh, but he's starting to feel vaguely queasy. "These ones shoot thorns like bullets."

Tony snickers. "Every rose has its--"

"Don't!" Natasha snaps.

"Very well. Bring me a shrubbery!" Tony says instead, then quickly adds, "Nevermind, I'll get it myself. Or, hey, Hulk got it, thanks big guy."

Clint grits his teeth, pretends he's not shivering, and then frowns when his arrows do jack and shit to an abnormally large sunflower. His struggles briefly to remember what arrowheads he's got, which seems slightly worrisome. He should be able to remember his own arrowheads, right?

"Hawkeye?" Steve asks.

Clint ignores him. He needs an arrowhead. Not an explosive one. It takes him a second to clear his head, but then he remember the acid heads. The arrow flies from his bow another second after that, and it hits the sunflower dead on, quickly reducing it to a limp heap on the ground.

"Hawkeye, status?" Steve asks again, urgently now, his voice full of worry.

Clint realizes he never responded to Steve in the first place and is about to respond, when he suddenly sees a swarm of mushrooms appear from the road, blocking the escape route for people.

"Get back!" Clint shouts, before activating his comm link. "I'm here, hitting the ground, Cap. Hopefully not head first."

"Status?" Steve asks, because they all know Clint only leaves his nest if he has to.

"Everything's gravy, just need to go pee on some bushes," Clint grunts, already in motion. It hurts his lungs, breathing so hard, but he still runs, jumps, uses his rappelling arrow to get down and swing into position.

Firing arrows as he goes, he ignores the thankfully diminishing chaos around him, ignores the other plants crawling around him, ignores everything but the voice at the back of his head that won't let him miss. His chest feels like there's an elephant sitting on it, and there's sweat in his eyes, but all his arrows hit their targets, mushrooms falling like dominoes.

He's just disposed of the group coming from the road, when a vine wraps around his bow and tugs, and Clint can't hold back a warble of pain as his arm wrenches painfully in its socket. The vine belongs to a plant with big leaves, and it's horrifyingly strong.

"Does it have to be human? Does it have to be mine?" Clint grunts, annoyed, but the plant either doesn't get his obscure references, or it doesn't appreciate his sense of humor; it just tugs harder, another vine getting dangerously close to Clint's leg. Clint _feels_ the tension in the bow, and he knows it's too much, so he lets go rather than hang onto it until it breaks.

Pulling out the emergency knife he always carries at the small of his back, Clint is about to dive in to get his bow back, when there's a screech to his left. A mushroom is nearly on top of a girl, teenaged probably, and the beefy head is raised and ready to strike.

Giving one lightning quick, mournful glance back at his bow, Clint launches himself at the mushroom, knife first, body tackling it off the teenager and sending them both flying. The impact squashes the mushroom and sends another green cloud flying up, hitting Clint full in the face.

It's horrible.

It's like what Clint imagines it must be like to take a splash of acid to his face. Except instead of burning Clint's skin, it finds its way into his nostrils, his mouth, his ears, his _tear ducts_. Gasping for air, eyes watering, Clint rolls off the mushroom. It doesn't move, Clint's knife embedded in it to the hilt.

"Never gonna be able to eat stuffed mushrooms again," Clint croaks out, because it seems like a good time for a quip.

"Are you okay?" the teenanger asks, approaching carefully.

"Did you," Clint gasps, and then has to draw several more breaths before he can go on. "Did you inhale any of that?"

She shakes her head, looking anxious. "No."

"Okay, good," Clint wheezes, and then looks around to see where the plant with his bow took off to, but it's nowhere in sight. "Fuck."

On the upside, there doesn't seem to be that many other plants skittering around, either. Just mostly dead ones, lying strewn on the ground, and one lone mushroom hobbling around the corner of the building. Clint decides to stay where he is and catch his breath for a moment. That mushroom was headed towards Tony's area anyway; he's sure it'll be fine.

"Are you sure you're okay?" the girl asks, leaning over him, hands nervously clutched to her chest. "You look a little--not okay."

"I could use a hand up," Clint says.

She's little enough that she stumbles and nearly falls over with the weight of Clint, but she still manages to help him to his feet.

"Where are your--parents?" Clint tries. Is she young enough to be there with her parents? At what age do normal people let their kids loose in places like this?

Her worried expression morphs to a vaguely offended frown. "Class field trip," she says. "I don't know where everyone else went."

"All right, let's get you out of here," Clint says, coughing and gesturing. "If you go that way, you'll hit the road. Keep going, and stay the fuck away from bushes, flowers, trees " He has to pause to cough some more. " - any--any plant life."

The coughs racking his body get to a point where he has to bend forward, leaning on his knees, and when they finally stop, he spits onto the ground and has to blink spots out of his eyes.

"I'm not sure I should be leaving you," the girl says.

Clint grunts and says, "Hey, who's rescuing who, here?" but he can't actually manage to stand up, so he probably doesn't sound very convincing.

"Aren't you supposed to have like a whole team of superweirdos backing you up?" the girl asks, and Clint can see her feet shift, like she's looking around.

"Superweirdos," he says, mostly to himself. "I'm gonna start calling us that. Much better than the Avengers."

"I'm serious," she insists. "Is there someone you can call? Backup? Anyone? 'Cause honestly, you look like you're about to fall over again and not get back up this time."

Just then, Steve shouts, "Hulk, Hulk do you see him, do you--" over the comm links, before Hulk roars massively in the distance. There's silence for a few seconds, before Thor chuckles warmly.

"Friends, I do believe we have won this battle."

"Well. That wasn't so bad," Tony says.

Clint, who feels like something might actually be melting inside of him, disagrees, but he's not about to say that out loud. He just needs to get to medical or--something.

"Yay," he says weakly to the girl. "We won."

He manages to straighten up, and after scanning the area carefully for any straggler sentient plants, he jerks his head towards the road. "Seriously, kid, get outta here. Plants seem to be kaput for now."

"Ha, you're funny," she says. Apparently she's done being scared, and has moved on to brash sarcasm. "I'm not leaving you, what if you croak? I'll be the chick who left the superhero to die alone!"

And _that_ rankles.

"I'm not gonna die alone," Clint snaps. "My team is on the way, and by the time they get here, you better be gone."

He manages to put just enough energy into the words that he must manage to convince her he's feeling a little better, because she looks like she might actually listen.

"Are you absolutely sure you're not gonna die?" she says.

"I'm _fine_ ," Clint gripes, which is kind of getting ahead of himself, because he has no clue if he's actually fine, but that's for him to worry about, not her.

 

The girl's frown deepens, but she sighs heavily and says, "All right, if you're sure."

Clint wonders if he was this annoying when he was a teenager. Probably worse, he decides. She finally turns to walk in the direction Clint indicated, so he considers it a win. When she's a few feet away, however, she turns to look at him over her shoulder, and says, "You know, I think you and your superweirdo friends should look out for each other more. For a team with two flying dudes, they are pretty slow in getting here."

Clint blinks, surprised, but she's already turned her back on him, walking faster now, to get to safety.

Clint waits until she's gone from sight and then his knees buckle and he sits down on his ass, right in the same spot. Seems as good a place as any.

"Hey uh, so what do we know about these plants?" Clint asks into the comm links, clicking it off again just in time to cough some more.

"Mad scientist, what else?" Natasha says dryly. "You okay over there?"

"We got him in custody?" Clint asks instead of answering her, which he knows will tip her off that something's wrong, but he's got other priorities.

"Well," Steve says. "Define custody?"

"Hulk sat on him," Natasha says, and Clint nods a little to himself.

"We need to check for injuries," Clint says. "Civilians, I mean. Not scientist, obviously. Mushroom gas, you know? And probably other stuff too."

Steve makes a noise of agreement. "Iron Man, Thor, can you do a sweep of the area? We found a crate with some stuff--mostly more poison, but I think some antidotes."

Antidote. That's the magic word Clint was waiting for, and he staggers to his feet. "All right. Coming to you, Cap."

"Hawkeye, seriously, you sound weird, are you okay? Do you need Tony to come get you?" Natasha asks. She sounds unusually worried.

Clint groans, cracking his neck. His body feels stiff and unwieldy, but Tony's supposed to be on the lookout for civilians, not playing taxi for Clint's sorry ass.

"I'm good," Clint protests. "Promise."

He wishes people would stop pestering him. He's not feeling so hot, but Steve said they had antidotes, so he just needs to get to Steve.

Once he gets to Steve, things will be fine.

*

Steve is apparently helping with cleanup by the south parking lot. Clint knows it's not actually that far, but by the time he reaches him, he feels like he's crossed an entire continent. His world is spinning. He feels like he's walking on ice, like he can't quite find his footing, even though he's on even ground. Nausea rolls up from his stomach and he swallows, throat dry, and breathes heavily through his nose.

A few yards away, Steve is walking over to a group of very scientist-y looking people. Clint's body is screaming at him, and he's hobbling towards Steve without really thinking too hard about it.

"Pretty sure this is the antidote," Steve is saying, holding up an injector to show the scientist people. "Noticeably different than the confirmed poisons, stored separately in a less secure container, with a different color coded label. There are maybe ten injectors total. If you could confirm this as an antidote, and find out what it's an antidote _for_ , so that we can distribute it where it needs to go, that would be great."

"Hey Steve, can I see that for a moment?" Clint asks as he comes up behind Steve, plucking the injector out of his hands and immediately stabbing it into his arm.

Steve turns. "Wha--oh my god, Clint!"

"Thanks," Clint says, swallowing bile. His knees are buckling and everything is spinning, but at least he got the antidote--he hopes.

"Clint! Clint, oh my god, are you okay? Hey, we need a medic over here right now!" Steve's face is worried and something's off about it, but Clint can't quite pinpoint what it is.

"I'm tired," Clint says.

"Clint," Steve repeats. Clint wishes he'd stop saying his name. It's starting to echo in his head.

"Oh hey, you're sideways," Clint says, as he finally figures out why Steve is looking weird, and then he vaguely realizes that Steve is sideways because he's cradling Clint in his arms on the ground. That's probably not good.

Clint tries to give the empty injector still in his hand a look that adequately conveys his disappointment in it, but moving his head seems impossible at the moment. Is someone holding it down?

"Damn. I thought for sure that would fix me," Clint complains.

"Where is the fucking medic?" Steve says, sounding very distressed.

"Cap's got a mouth on him," Clint mumbles, or at least he thinks he does. He's so very, very tired. A nap seems like the best idea ever, so Clint closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

*

The first thing Clint sees when he blinks open his eyes is the thickest pair of glasses he's ever seen.

"Oh good, you're awake," the man behind the glasses says. Clint blinks at the glasses. They're so thick, they make the man's eyes look comically enlarged.

"I'm Dr. Abidi, you should probably try to stay still for a while. Do you remember what happened?"

Clint blinks again and squints against what can't be anything but hospital ceiling lights--only hospitals install lights this annoying--and sits up, ignoring both his pounding headache and the protesting noises the doctor is making. "Yeah," Clint says, swinging his legs off the bed. There's an IV in one arm, but he's still in uniform. Good. He can't have been out that long, then. "Big 'shrooms."

"The poison might still be lingering in your body," Dr. Abidi warns, sounding entirely unhappy with Clint. "But it does appear that what you injected yourself with was an antidote. We'll know more when your people get a sample analyzed. Fortunately for you, there were more of them available."

Clint feels a slight sting of guilt, but refuses to dwell on it. "All right," he says and gestures at the IV. "If you could just get me unhooked from this thing, doc, I'll be on my way."

Dr. Abidi gets a sour look on his face and he adjusts his glasses a little. Clint tries not to snicker at how it makes Dr. Abidi's oversized eyes shift. "I sincerely think--"

"This isn't a SHIELD facility, right?" 

Dr. Abidi frowns. "No, it isn't, it's--"

"Right," Clint nods. "I bet SHIELD probably doesn't have any facilities left, huh? So that means you can't make me stay."

"Mr. Barton," Dr. Abidi bristles.

"Take this thing out," Clint says, interrupting Dr. Abidi again. He figures if Dr. Abidi won't let him go, he can always just tear out the IV himself, though speaking from experience, he'd prefer not to.

Dr. Abidi sighs heavily, and for a moment it looks like he wants to protest again, but in the end he does as Clint says.

"Thanks, doc."

"Your friends are waiting outside," Dr. Abidi says.

For a moment, Clint's completely mystified. "Friends?"

"Coworkers?" Dr. Abidi tries. "I believe Mr. Stark has been giving our hospital security staff some grief."

Clint understands then, and nods. "Let me guess; he tried to buy the hospital in order to be let back here?"

"It is my understanding he at least threatened to, yes," Dr. Abidi confirms, looking slightly amused, before his expression gets serious again. "Mr. Barton, you might still experience adverse reactions to the toxins you were exposed to. Being that we don't typically deal with sentient mushrooms, we don't really have a frame of reference. I'm going to have to ask that you seek medical attention immediately, if you notice anything unusual, all right? Anything at all."

Clint stretches a little, works to limber up some of his sore muscles again, and breathes deeply and evenly. His headache is already lessening. "I feel fine, doc, you don't gotta worry."

"The point isn't whether you feel fine right now or not," Dr. Abidi says. "The point is that you might not, later."

"Okay," Clint says, waving him off. "I promise to seek medical yadda yadda. Can I go?"

Dr. Abidi sighs heavily, then moves aside and gestures at the door. "Please take care of yourself, Mr. Barton."

"I always do," Clint lies through his teeth, and leaves.

*

Clint was half expecting everyone to be waiting for him, but when he gets to the waiting room, only Tony and Phil are there. The second they spot Clint coming through the doors, Tony straightens up, still in his armor but with his helmet off.

"Whoa, hey, that was fast."

"Wasn't much wrong," Clint says, barely pausing in his step to shrug, before continuing on, following the signs towards the exit.

"Wasn't much wrong?" Phil says, sounding incredulous, as they follow him through the hospital hallways.

 

"Wasn't much wrong," Clint repeats, not really wanting to deal with Phil at all, right now. He's still working on clearing the last remnants of his headache, and Phil's not helping. Neither of them are, but at least Tony's presence is more welcome than Phil's.

"You were poisoned. You injected yourself with an unknown substance," Phil says, and his voice is hard.

"Antidote," Clint says, as if he'd known that all along. Which isn't entirely a lie, either, he'd been pretty sure it was the right antidote, and it turned out that it was, so why's Phil giving him a hard time about it? It annoys him.

They reach the exit then, and Clint pauses outside to look around. St. Barnabas, it looks like? That's not bad; Clint's been to this hospital a few times. He can get home easily, he thinks.

"Need a ride?" Tony asks, sounding oddly concerned.

"I'm fine," Clint grits out. He might get that tattooed on his forehead, if people keep asking. _I'm fine._

"You should probably stay for observation," Phil remarks, in a tone that makes it clear it's not actually a suggestion.

"I don't need to stay for observation."

"I think maybe--" Tony starts to say, but Clint shuts him up with a glare.

"Stark, can I," Phil starts, then changes it from a question to an order. "I need a word with Hawkeye."

For a moment, Tony looks suspiciously from Phil to Clint and back again, and Clint knows that Tony's not dumb. He knows something is going on. But he also won't say anything unless Clint asks him to.

"All right, let me know if you change your mind," Tony says easily to Clint, too easily, before he puts his helmet on and then takes off to--somewhere. Clint doesn't care. It's pretty obvious that he's planning on sticking around, just at a distance. Clint wonders if it's because he looks weak enough to break down, or if it's because they're worried he's gonna fuck things up with SHIELD.

"Barton!" Phil says, but Clint keeps walking. He doesn't have time for one of Phil's lectures. Or, rather, he has time, he just doesn't want to hear it.

"Hey," Phil says, more calm, but grabbing Clint's arm to stop him at the same time. It makes anger flare in Clint, and he spins around to stare down at where Phil's fingers are curling around his bicep.

"Don't grab me," he warns.

"What the hell was that out there?" Phil asks, but he lets go of Clint's arm, at least.

"My job," Clint says.

Phil's face takes on a pinched look and his lips press together. It's his _I am so pissed I can't even say it_ look, and Clint used to find it scorchingly hot. Mostly because it was always aimed at someone else. Even when Clint did his very best to get under Phil's skin, he never really got more than long suffering annoyance. Now, being on the receiving end of that look, Clint decides he doesn't like it.

"Your job," Phil says, enunciating, "is to save lives, Barton, and that includes your _own_."

"My job is also to put the safety and wellbeing of others before myself, and if you can't keep that in mind, then you're the wrong person for this position," Clint snaps back.

Phil's jaw visibly clenches for a moment. "You can't help people if you're dead. Do you understand that this alliance we have is not for nothing? Do you understand that the Avengers Initiative is this close to being shut down? There are at least four countries with significant armed forces just _waiting_ for an excuse to put you guys out of business."

"What's it even matter to you?" Clint scoffs. "We don't work for you."

"I'm not asking you to!" Phil exclaims, frustrated, and then lowers his voice again, glancing around as he apparently remembers they're in public.

Clint knows it's dumb as shit, but damn if that doesn't string more than anything else Phil has said or done to him.

"All you do is lie and lie and lie," Clint accuses through clenched teeth. "Fuck you, _sir_."

"I never lied to you," Phil says, scowling, and that makes Clint want to scream.

"Bullshit," he hisses. "Bull. _Shit!_ How long before Fury brought you back, huh? How long were you running around, getting promoted to Director and rebuilding SHIELD before I found out? How long?"

"That's different," Phil says darkly.

"Why?" Clint demands. "Because that was concerning our personal lives, too? Because you somehow didn't give enough of a shit about your _boyfriend_ to tell him you had miraculously returned from the dead? It must have been so goddamn convenient for you, an easy way to get the fuck out of a relationship that you were probably done with anyway--"

"You weren't supposed to find out!" Phil blurts out, loud enough that several people turn to look at them.

Clint's mouth immediately snaps shut.

He feels like he's been punched in the gut, and all the air seems to have left his lungs. He can't breathe. He can't think.

In front of him, Phil's face is immediately crumbling into something regretful and apologetic. "Clint, I--I didn't mean--"

"I wasn't supposed to know you were alive," Clint says flatly. "I wasn't supposed to find out."

"That's not what I meant."

Clint tries to laugh, but it just comes out as a hollow chuckle instead, ugly and nasty. "Yeah. Kinda sounds like that's what you meant. Fuck you, Coulson."

Clint turns and walks away. He wants a bow in his hands. He wants a bottle in his hands. He wants to hurt, to bleed, to not breathe and not feel and not _think_.

"You're grounded until further notice," Phil says from behind him--a final jab, meant to provoke Clint into action, into anger.

"Whatever," Clint says, and keeps walking.

He's done playing Phil's games.

*

Clint finds Bucky in the gym. He's punching one of Tony's reinforced heavy bags, metal arm moving in precise, even arcs and connecting with the bag with heavy, rhythmic thumps.

Clint stands in the doorway for a few moments, just watching him, admiring the glint of metal, before he takes a step into the room. If Bucky knows he's there--and, let's face it, Bucky knows--he doesn't let on. He just keeps pummeling the bag.

"Working out some frustration or something?" Clint asks, voice echoing faintly.

"Or something," Bucky responds glumly. Then he finally stills, turning around to face Clint. His skin has a sheen of sweat on it, and he's breathing heavily. Upon seeing Clint, Bucky's face does a complicated thing. His expression briefly flickers to surprised concern, before he smoothes it all down and a corner of his mouth tilts up. "Why, did you need anything?" he asks.

Clint doesn't know what's showing on his face, so he just grins, nasty and inviting.

*

Clint doesn't bother with finesse when they get to his bedroom, he just strips as fast and efficiently as possible, and then gets on all fours on the bed, bowing his head and waiting.

"Eager?" Bucky asks behind him, but it's not teasing or amused, it sounds more like a sneer.

"Whatever, like you're not dying to get in my ass," Clint snaps back. He'd really like it if he could shut his brain off for a while and not think about--anything at all. Being benched stings enough as it is, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees Phil's face, brows pinched together in a frown that looks vaguely disappointed, and Clint hates it. He wants to forget Phil and Phil's face and the warmth of Phil's voice when he says Clint's name.

"Who wouldn't, when you seem to want it so badly," Bucky says, and sounds vaguely sarcastic.

"Look, can we just get on with it?" Clint asks, gritting his teeth and staring at the sheets. "I don't need fucking flowers and candy or whatever, we're here for a reason. You gonna get with the program, or am I gonna have to look elsewhere?"

He expects another snappy remark from Bucky, but is relieved when none is forthcoming. Instead, there's the rustling of clothes, before Bucky kneels on the bed behind him, reaching for the lube on the nightstand, before blanketing Clint's back.

Bucky's fingers breach him with little finesse, and it makes him wince into the sheets, but there's a part of Clint that likes it, too. Likes the burning and the slight jabs of discomfort, because he's not looking for like--fucking lovemaking or whatever.

Even the thought makes Clint grimace. He puts his chest down, raises his ass up a little further, and tries to push aside every messy thought in his head and just focus on Bucky's fingers in his ass, stretching and pulling at him.

 _Lovemaking_ , ugh. That shit is for people who give a good goddamn about each other, and about being treated gently. For people who _deserve_ to be treated gently.

Clint's got Bucky's metal fingers in his ass and Bucky's harsh breathing in his ear, and that's more than he deserves, really.

Clint's erection, a little slow to get with the program, rises to full hardness when Bucky hits some good spots inside of him, and Clint wiggles backwards, trying to take Bucky's fingers deeper.

"Keep still," Bucky orders him, his free hand coming up to clamp down at the nape of Clint's neck. It causes an instant reaction in Clint, his dick jumping between his legs, precome leaking at the tip, and he can't hold back a groan.

He wants to make a comment, wants to goad Bucky and say something like, _I'll be still if you'll get your dick in me already_ , but Bucky's fingers press into his skin, pushing him towards that hazy headspace where Clint knows everything will feel better.

Clint's shoulder is mashed uncomfortably against the mattress, and he shifts, trying to get into a better position, but Bucky presses down harder. "Stay down," Bucky orders, and Clint has to bite the inside of his cheek at Bucky's tone. Sparks are going off inside him, making his skin hot and itchy in the best way.

"Yes," Clint agrees, bites back the _sir_ , because they've never been like that, and stays immobile when Bucky loosens his grip around Clint's neck. Pushing up, Bucky withdraws his fingers from Clint's body, but before Clint can even whimper in protest, the head of Bucky's cock is at his entrance, pushing insistently, but not breaching his body.

"Do you want this?" Bucky asks. The feeling of him, so close to being inside of Clint but not quite, is maddening, and Clint makes a faint whining noise. "Answer me."

Bucky's words are firm, leaving no room for argument, and Clint tries nodding, but Bucky's hand is pressing him too firmly down into the mattress. "Yes," he manages, "Yes, I want this."

"Don't lie to me," Bucky says, and there's a slightly desperate edge to his voice now. "I'll know, if you're lying to me."

"I'm not lying," Clint says, not sure how else to convince Bucky that he wants this, he needs this, he _deserves_ this. "I want you to fuck me, s--Bucky, please."

There's a sharp intake of breath behind him, and a moment's hesitation--and then Bucky's finally pushing forward, into Clint's body.

"Thank you," Clint breathes, dizzy with relief, because his ass is stinging and stretching and it's exactly what he needs.

Bucky's thrusts are immediately hard, and Clint loves the way they push him up the bed, little by little. He's trying to be quiet, but the pressure of Bucky's hand on his neck and the thrusts pushing him into the mattress are dragging small noises from his throat, punctuating their movements. It's soothing, the rhythmic regularity of Bucky's movements, and Clint can feel himself slowly sinking into that place where everything feels--better. His cock is rock hard between his legs, but he doesn't touch, doesn't even attempt to, because Bucky hasn't told him it's okay, and he wants Bucky's approval before he comes.

Bucky lets go of Clint's neck and it's on the tip of Clint's tongue to protest, but then Bucky gathers both of Clint's arms behind his back and squeezes before leaning his weight back onto Clint, thrusts never faltering. A groan escapes from Clint then, because his arms are completely immobile in Bucky's strong grip, and he's still taking all of Bucky's considerable weight, pressing him into the mattress, and Bucky's cock is hard and insistent in his ass.

His head is swimming with everything, all the sensations, and he's so hard that he feels like it should hurt, but it doesn't. He thinks he could stay hard forever, if Bucky asked him to, as long as he can just keep getting _this_ from Bucky.

Bucky's pants above him, and says, "Clint, I want you to come when I tell you to, can you do that?"

Clint stares at the wall and feels drunk, because that's a silly question. Of course he can. "Yes," he says, word like cotton in his mouth.

Bucky doesn't praise him, doesn't say _Good_ , doesn't smirk or laugh, he just keeps thrusting, using Clint's body for his own purposes. Clint licks his lips and sinks deeper into the blissful fog. His cock is drooling, he knows. He hopes Bucky can tell. He hopes Bucky likes how Clint's body responds to his hands and his voice. He hopes Bucky sees how good Clint can be, how good he _is_.

Phil never saw, Clint thinks, and then immediately forces the thought from his mind.

Behind him, Bucky grunts, fingers clenching around Clint's wrist, and says, "Now, now, you gotta come now."

"Okay," Clint says, and does, eyes closing as his orgasm crests and washes over him. It's not like a sharp wave of pleasure, but more like a warm whisper of something lighter than air.

"No clue how you did that," Bucky grunts. It's not praise, but he sounds vaguely awed, so it's close enough, Clint thinks.

He opens his eyes again when his cock stops twitching, and risks a glance over his shoulder. He can't see properly from this angle, but Bucky is still thrusting, cock still hard in Clint's body.

Bucky must see the movement of Clint's head, because suddenly the rhythm of his hips slows way down. Clint fights the urge to wiggle his ass backwards, because he doesn't want Bucky to stop, he wants Bucky to _come_. Doesn't Bucky want to come? Isn't Clint being good for him?

Bucky lets go of Clint's hands, and Clint wants to protest, but before he has the chance, Bucky leans forward heavily on his back. Clint grunts with the weight and he has to brace his arms against the mattress to hold them both up. Bucky's still moving his hips slowly, so slowly, and Clint tries to shift underneath him, wanting to get Bucky's cock right where he needs it the most, but he doesn't have room to move much.

Clint squirms and pants, little noises escaping his throat even though he's trying hard to hold them in, because he's so desperate, he wants to be good for Bucky, wants to make Bucky come--

" _Stop squirming_!" Bucky snaps, frustrated, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust--and Clint drops faster and harder than he can ever recall dropping.

Clint's brain feels fuzzy around the edges. He's vaguely aware that the noises he's making are growing louder, but he's got Bucky inside of him, and around him, and with him--

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," Bucky grits out, thrusts growing faster and harder as his metal hand coming up to grasp at the underside of Clint's jaw, fingers digging into the soft skin of his throat. His index finger ends up pulling on Clint's bottom lip, and Clint feels _hungry_ for it. He tries desperately to get it into his mouth, but all it seems to do is make Bucky angry with him.

Bucky sounds frustrated and not at all happy, and Clint doesn't know what he did, or what he's supposed to do--he just wants Bucky to come--but Bucky's fingers are twitching against his throat, so Clint tries to nod as best as he can, says, "Harder, please."

At first Bucky doesn't seem to understand, so Clint manages to briefly lift a hand up to close over Bucky's, squeezing to show him what Clint means, before he has to brace himself on the mattress again, Bucky's thrusts still rocking him forward.

Bucky hesitates for a while, Clint's not sure how long, all he's aware of is Bucky's cock splitting him open. It's like being weightless and spun around, and it could be a second passing, it could be an hour, Clint doesn't know, before Bucky's fingers tighten around his throat.

"You want this?" Bucky asks. Clint can't decipher the tone of his voice.

"Yes," Clint wheezes, voice distorted by the restricted airflow. "Yes!"

He's adrift in a storm, body just for Bucky to use. Clint doesn't know exactly how strong Bucky's arm is, but it's strong. Bucky could probably--no, definitely--kill him, if he wanted to. The thrill of it sends sharp sparks up along Clint's spine, and he manages, "Harder," until Bucky's squeezing so hard Clint can't talk, sees spots, and Clint thinks, _I couldn't get away right now even if I wanted to_ , and _I'm good, I'm good now, I'm good_.

"Jesus," Bucky whispers into Clint's ear. Between Clint's legs, his cock dribbles precome onto the sheets, adding to the wet spot there, and suddenly the need to come _burns_ under Clint's skin. He hadn’t even realized he was hard again; when did that happen?

The world's gone so soft around the edges, and Clint closes his eyes, tries to say something, tries to ask, _Please, let me come_ , but he can't talk.

"Can you come again?" Bucky asks, panting, thrusts growing erratic, and not waiting for an answer. "I want you to come again. Come on, Clint, show me, come on."

Clint's orgasm makes him feel like he's being stretched thin, spread across the surface of his bed and strung out, and behind him, Bucky thrusts twice more, painfully so, before stilling.

As soon as his fingers loosen around Clint's throat, Clint gasps for air and pitches forward. Bucky slipping from his body feels like a _loss_ , but Clint has no strength left. His lungs are burning and his eyes are tearing, but he forces them open anyway, blinking against the moisture and spots dancing in his vision. He's in the wet spot, but he doesn't care. Every nerve ending he has is on fire in the best way, and above him, Bucky's still on all fours, leaning heavily on his metal arm and catching his breath.

Clint feels like crying.

He forces it down, and when he feels moderately sure his face won't look like a fucking disaster, he flips over to fully face Bucky.

Bucky's looking at him with wide eyes, and Clint wishes he could read Bucky better. He has no clue what's going on in Bucky's mind.

Bucky looks down the length of his body to where his cock is softening between his legs, sticky with semen and lube, before looking back at Clint.

"Clean me up."

The order is spoken softly. It's on the tip of Clint's tongue to object, to protest, but he's too deep. Bucky wants this to feel good? Bucky will have it.

"How?" he asks, and hopes Bucky won't mind that his voice trembles, hoarse and raw and painful.

Bucky looks like he hadn't actually expected Clint to follow that order, and then glances towards the bathroom. "Towel is fine," he says.

Clint nods and goes to the bathroom on autopilot, grabbing a washcloth and making sure the water is a good temperature. He goes back to the bedroom and gets onto the bed again. Bucky sits back on his heels, spreading his legs to give Clint access, and Clint crawls into the space as best he can. He takes his time, carefully washing all the stickiness off every patch of skin he can reach. 

Bucky's cock is beautiful and heavy, and Clint so rarely gets to see it like this. After swiping the washcloth over it one last time, he leans down to give it a soft kiss. He wants to stay between Bucky's legs forever, just nuzzling his cock. When he's here, when he's like this, the world doesn't have any of its sharp edges. Here, he can forget--

"You okay?" Bucky asks, and it's like pouring a bucket of ice water over Clint.

"Fine," he manages, scooting backwards, even though he really just longs to curl up in the gap of Bucky's legs and stay there until he feels like himself again. He hides it as best he can, unwilling to get into it with Bucky. Talking hurts right now, anyway.

Bucky's eyes are on Clint's neck, and Clint wonders if he's got bruises.

"So that was kind of..." Bucky says, trailing off. The silence lingers for a while, and when Bucky speaks again, he sounds a little hesitant.

"I have a question."

Clint turns his head just enough to acknowledge that Bucky's spoken. "Hm?"

"I, uh," Bucky says. "I know. I know what you like. You've said. You like it when I throw you around a little. You like being told what to do. You like it when I get rough," Bucky says--and then he sounds really sad. "But do you like _me_?"

Clint averts his eyes and flops down on the bed. He doesn't think about how the sheets suddenly feel coarse on his oversensitive skin, like he's lying on burlap. He doesn't answer Bucky's question, and instead says, "You should probably go."

Bucky's silent for a couple of moments, and Clint gets the distinct impression he's going to protest. _Stay_ , Clint doesn't say, because he doesn't care about Bucky. He doesn't care about anyone.

In the end, Bucky just slides off the bed and starts dressing without a word. Clint rolls over, turning his back to Bucky, and pretends he's dozing. He doubts he succeeds in fooling Bucky, with the way his fingers are twitching slightly and the way his breathing can't quite seem to calm down all the way, but Bucky doesn't say anything about it.

"Catch you later," Bucky mumbles on his way out, but Clint doesn't respond.

*

Clint's drifting in and out, dozing. He considers running a bath. He knows he needs to do something to pull himself up from subspace, but he can't quite bring himself to move yet.

He wishes he was back between Bucky's legs, the warmth of Bucky's body enough to quiet the buzzing in Clint's head. Bucky's hands are strong, but capable of being gentle, Clint knows. He's never really given Bucky the chance. He doesn't know first-hand what it feels like, Bucky holding him and hugging him and cradling him.

Clint used to be able to call up the sensory memory of Phil's arms around him whenever he wanted, but lately it's been difficult. He can't quite get it anymore. It's been too long. Clint blinks and stares at the wall, and thinks that Phil would definitely know what to do, how to help him, how to make him feel better--

Except.

Clint pushes the thought away, into the fog of his brain, and doesn't bother reaching too hard for it anymore. It's a moot point.

He sleeps.

*

Clint jolts awake to the shrill ringing of his emergency phone, heart thundering in his chest and his mouth dry. 

Gasping for air and fighting off a dream--a nightmare?--that he can't quite remember, anymore, Clint rolls out of bed, grimacing when the sheet sticks to him for a moment before letting go, crusted sperm flaking off him. It's daylight outside. Maybe around noon? Later than morning for sure, but not quite afternoon yet. He's been asleep for a while, then.

For a moment, Clint considers not answering the phone, but he quickly dismisses the thought. He has the emergency phone for a reason, benched or not. He's still fighting dizzy spells, and his brain doesn't quite feel like it's working right, so he takes a couple of deep breaths before connecting the call, willing his voice to stay calm.

"Hello?"

It still hurts to talk.

"Barton?" It's Phil, and a sharp pain shoots through Clint's chest at the way Phil uses his last name.

"Yeah," he manages. "What do you want?"

"Sorry, but something's come up, and we need you," Phil says.

"I--I thought I was grounded," Clint manages, fingers clenching and unclenching around the phone.

"This is an emergency," Phil says.

Right. He didn't say it, but Clint still feels like he can hear it in Phil's voice: They need him _despite_ everything.

Clint takes just a moment to consider saying no. His skin is itchy and he feels like he can't sit still, yet every movement makes pins and needles shoot through his limbs. His head feels sluggish. He's not sure he'd be of any use to the team right now--but then again, he's not that useful to begin with, is he? Bucky could take his place, easily.

"I'm not asking, I'm telling," Phil says.

Rage fights its way through the fog of Clint's mind, and he rebels against the effect Phil's stern voice has on his body. "You're not my boss anymore," he snaps, harsher than he intended. "There's no SHIELD anymore, so fuck you, and fuck--"

"Clint?"

Steve's voice.

Clint snaps his mouth shut.

"Everything okay?" Steve asks down the line. His voice is warm and concerned, and Clint hates him a little bit.

"I'll be there in ten," Clint informs Steve, and hangs up.

*

People are talking at him. Clint knows that, but he can't quite seem to focus. It's like his body knows what he needs to do, where he needs to go, how he needs to react, but Clint's just along for the ride.

"Blobs," he says, repeats, knowing what Steve is telling him, but not really _understanding_.

"Blobs," Steve says with a shrug. "I don't know what else to call them. Thor knows their name, but I can't recreate that sound. They seem invulnerable to almost anything. Tony got one of 'em though, and they have a weak spot. It's just that they're too fast for us. We can't hit them. According to Thor, their weak spot is like their brain, so if we hit it, game over. We figured maybe you could--"

"We need your aim," Phil interjects. Something stirs in Clint's chest at Phil's harsh tone, almost like anger trying to burst out of him and bleed across his skin, but it won't come.

"You need my aim," Clint repeats. He can do that. He's got his backup compound bow. He can shoot blobs.

"Tony's developing a targeting system to help," Steve says, "but we need to do something in the meantime."

The Quinjet they're on wobbles a little, and Phil stumbles sideways, nearly toppling into Clint, but catching himself at the last minute. "Sorry," Phil says, but Clint can't say anything back, he just stares, suddenly closer to Phil than he's been since before Phil died.

Phil raises his head and looks like he's about to say something else, when his eyes land on Clint and he freezes for a moment. "Clint?"

Clint's not sure what his own face looks like, but Phil's tone must reveal something, because Steve also turns to look at Clint, frowning.

"What happened to your throat?" Phil asks.

Clint blinks, tries to focus. His throat. Bruises, probably. From Bucky's metal hand. His uniform probably doesn't hide them at all. Clint swallows, and it's like the world pulses around him with the pain that comes with it. For a brief second, he wants to let his eyes roll back and lie down and just exist--but no, he's an Avenger, he's Hawkeye, he's on a mission.

"Vine," Clint manages. "From the plants. Should be in the medical report."

Phil exchanges a look with Steve, then gestures to Clint's throat. "Do you know anything about this?" he asks, suspicion evident in his tone.

"I haven't read the medical reports yet," Steve says, sounding vaguely suspicious himself, but just then Natasha shouts, "We're here, guys," at them, and the moment's broken.

Clint's bow feels grounding in his hands, and he shakes his head to clear some of the fog.

"You sure you're okay?"

For a moment, Clint thinks it's Steve again, asking low and worried in his ear, but it's not. It's Phil.

Clint blinks owlishly at him and nods. "I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

He's fine. He just needs to focus, that's all. He's got a job to do.

Natasha takes them to the highest rooftop she can find, Quinjet hovering delicately mid-air to allow them to jump out. Clint pretends not to see Phil in the gaping maw of the Quinjet as they fly away, and instead tries to zero in on the little, flying blobs zipping around them.

"How--how many of them are there?" he asks.

"I have no clue," Steve says, shaking his head. "Not possible to count them. Not even JARVIS could do it. They're just too fast."

Clint tries tracking them, but it's difficult, so difficult. The blobs are soccer ball sized, vaguely blue, but mostly translucent. Some of them are sitting on rooftops and awnings and lamp posts, but the ones that aren’t seem to be in constant motion. A few blocks away, Thor's lightning is crackling, and in the streets below, Hulk is swinging both arms wildly around him in frustration, unable to hit anything as the blobs zip around him.

Drawing his bow, Clint blinks once, twice, and tries to breathe evenly, but it's like his lungs won't cooperate. His skin is tingling with heat, and the inability to immediately zero in on a target only pushes his stress levels further.

"Clint?" Steve asks.

"Everything okay?" Phil's voice comes on the comm link, and Clint wants to scream at him. Phil's not supposed to be on comms with them.

"Why are you here?" he asks. He knows Phil's voice so well, Phil's voice has always been one of many things about Phil that's served as a way of grounding Clint, but right now it's like needles in his ear.

"I don't know," Steve says, suspiciously, answering Phil instead of acknowledging that Clint's spoken.

"Shut up," Clint grits out, finally catching proper sight of a blob, and immediately spotting the slightly darkened spot that must be its brain. The arrow flies true and steady, and the blob falls.

"Barton," Phil says, and Clint feels like someone is filling his entire brain up with static.

"Shut up!" he bites out again, nocking and drawing more arrows, pouring everything he has into focusing on bringing down the blobs.

"Clint," Phil says, tone warm and worried and _different_ , and Clint's fingers twitch. His arrow flies, and misses the blob he was aiming for. For a split second he thinks maybe Steve didn't see it--but then he glances over, and Steve is looking at him with wide eyes, mouth not quite hanging open, but almost.

"Clint," Steve says, shocked.

The pain behind Clint's eyeballs is intensifying, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just--don't, Cap, I--"

"Coulson," Steve orders, and his voice has gone full-on Captain America now. "We need an evac. Clint's in no shape to be doing this right now."

"What's wrong?" Phil asks immediately, though it's not clear if he's speaking to Steve or Clint.

Shame burns in Clint's gut, and he keeps his eyes shut, sliding into a crouch as he tries to feel like he fits into his own skin again. "Shut up," he whispers, to himself, to Phil, to the world in general. "Shut up, just shut up, shut up--"

"Have a medical team on standby," Steve says, and Clint manages to hold up a hand, because he doesn't need a medical team, he doesn't need--

"I don't need a medical team," he grits out.

"Maybe after-effects of the poison," Steve continues, completely ignoring Clint's protests. Clint grits his teeth. He wishes people would just listen to him!

"It's not--it's not the _poison_ ," Clint finally manages to snap, harsh breaths making his words jagged and raw. "It's--" His face burns. "I just--I didn't have time to--come up, to come up--from--"

"Subspace," Phil's voice cuts into Clint's ear. He sounds worried, Clint thinks.

He waits for Steve's confusion, but it never comes. Instead, Steve curses quietly to himself, but not like he's angry at Clint. It's all very confusing. Steve's voice floats to him. "All right, let's just get you back to the tower."

"We'll be back at your position in thirty seconds," Natasha says. Her voice is comforting. She doesn't sound worried like Steve or Phil. She sounds angry. That's okay. Clint can deal with anger. He's used to anger. He's relieved that there's at least one person left he can count on to not treat him with kid gloves just because he's a colossal fuckup.

The roar of the Quinjet engines doesn't really register with Clint until Steve's arms are around him, half lifting, half pulling him upwards to the lift line. Clint feels the world tilt, dizzying, spinning, as they're lifted into the Quinjet, and then he just collapses onto the floor, because the alternative is opening his eyes and facing Phil and Natasha, and he just--doesn't want to.

Someone puts a hand on his shoulder, warm and strong and comforting. He's not sure if it's Phil or Steve.

"Sorry," Clint mutters, angry and humiliated.

Nobody answers him.

*

Clint must drift in and out a little, because he doesn't really remember the ride back to the tower; he just suddenly realizes that they've stopped moving, and Natasha's voice is in his ear. "Clint. Come on, you need to get up."

It's a clear order, hard and slightly angry, even though her tone takes most of the sting out of her words. It's enough to get Clint to his feet. Someone tries to take his elbow to lead him out of the Quinjet, but Clint shakes it off. He needs a bed. He needs to sleep for maybe fifty years. He needs a shower, and he needs to just--fit into his own skin again, please.

Behind him, Steve says, "There's other stuff--" and Phil says, "I'll handle this, but I really wish we knew who--"

\--and Clint tries not to think about it, but mumbles, just loud enough so they'll hear him, "Bucky."

There's a sharp inhale of breath. Clint bets it's Steve.

Clint keeps walking.

"But--Bucky. Why wouldn't he..." Steve says, quietly, sounding like he's talking mostly to himself. Clint can hear the unspoken words. _Why wouldn't he take care of you?_ Then Steve's voice grows stronger again. "Natasha, can you...?"

There's a pause before she says, "Sure, yeah, I'll find Tony. Tell him to hurry up with the targeting system."

Steve sounds relieved. "Thank you." After that, Clint doesn't hear Natasha anymore. He thinks briefly that it's a shame, he could have used her no-nonsense attitude right about now. But on the other hand, she might actually pity him for this, and avoiding pity was sort of the point of this whole thing to begin with, wasn't it?

Steve and Phil come up on each side of Clint, flanking him the whole way up to his quarters, but neither of them say anything else. In his peripheral vision, Clint can see their faces. Neither of them give anything away. They still don't look angry, but they also don't look worried anymore. Just blank poker faces that make Clint want to punch walls and scream, _Do something, react!_ just so he'll know what they're thinking. It's awkward and humiliating, and Clint can't look directly at them, at all.

When Clint enters his quarters, he's half tempted to just shut the door in Phil and Steve's faces, but he doesn't have the strength for that fight. He does, however, plan to just dive into bed and if he's really lucky, they'll be gone when he resurfaces--but that plan appears to be moot when he sees Bucky rising from his couch.

"Bucky," Steve says in greeting, not looking surprised in the least to see Bucky in Clint's quarters. Hell, Steve probably called ahead and asked Bucky to meet them there.

"What the hell is going on?" Bucky asks, looking worried--more worry, everyone's worried, Clint thinks--as he takes in Clint's appearance. His eyes settle on the bruises on Clint's throat, and Bucky visibly swallows. "What is..."

"Sergeant Barnes," Phil says, in a tone that might've been pleasant, if the situation was different. "We were hoping you could shed some light on what's been going on between Clint and yourself."

For a moment, panic flashes across Bucky's face, but then it shuts down and he crosses his arms. "Don't see how that's any of your business."

Phil appears to consider this for a second. "You're right. It's not. But Clint needs help, and we'd really like to know how to provide that help." Bucky's eyes go from Phil to Clint, before finally sliding over and settling on Steve. Steve nods, the tiniest bit. Clint wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole. "Please," Phil says, cautiously, but not desperately.

Bucky looks back at Clint, but his eyes aren't on Clint's eyes, they're still on his bruises. "Clint?" Bucky asks, the tiniest frown appearing on his face.

Clint realizes with a start that Bucky won't say anything, not one word, if Clint says no. And for all that Bucky wants control, Clint is flooded with guilt and shame that Bucky thinks this decision is Clint's.

The instinct to say no is strong, and Clint's got his mouth open to voice it, when he suddenly freezes. He thinks about the pain in his chest and Bucky's fingers digging into the soft flesh of his throat, and Clint finally, finally, is forced to admit that he's tired of fighting.

Eyes lowering, Clint says, because he needs Steve and Phil to know this, he needs them to _understand_ this, "It wasn't Bucky's fault. He didn't know."

Bucky's voice takes on a slightly impatient, but mostly just increasingly worried, tone. "Didn't know what?" he asks.

Clint closes his eyes and doesn't have the strength to continue.

"There's a few things you should probably know about, when engaging in BDSM practices," Phil says, and the words sound like Agent--Director Coulson--but the tone is all Phil, warm and understanding, and it confuses Clint. It jumbles the image he has of Phil in his head, and he hates himself for putting everyone through this, for dragging everyone into his mess.

It's hard to follow Phil's big words and carefully constructed sentences. Clint listens. He tries to focus. "Aftercare is an important part of any scene," Phil's saying, and then either Clint loses track for a moment, or there's a long pause before Bucky says, "I didn't know," and he sounds stunned and sad.

Clint wonders if Bucky hates him now. He wonders if _Steve_ hates him now.

"Clint," Steve says, but he doesn't sound angry, he just sounds sad, too. Everyone sounds sad.

"I--I can't," Clint tries, opening his eyes with the intention of actually raising his head and looking at them, but finds that he can't bear it. He tries to focus on his breathing instead. It's difficult enough, he can lose himself in the inhale and exhale.

Phil's voice drifts to him eventually, saying, "I understand," and, "I'll take care of it," and Clint risks a brief glance up.

Phil's walking Steve and Bucky to the door, Bucky looking back at Clint as he goes. His eyebrows are drawn together in an unhappy frown, and Clint bows his head again and wants to sink through the floor.

Once Phil's closed the door behind Steve and Bucky, he turns around and just stands there, looking at Clint. Clint keeps his head down, but he can still sort of see Phil in his peripheral vision. He doesn't know what Phil's face looks like, and he's scared to check.

Clint's eyes are stinging. They don't feel wet, so he doesn't think he's crying, but they're stinging.

Phil's not a loud person, like Tony or Steve, filling every room they enter with their presence and opinions, but Phil's always been noticeable to Clint. A steady presence, stable and reliable and safe, like a heartbeat. During the years Clint thought Phil was dead, it had always felt like the world was just a little bit off, like white noise suddenly going silent in the background, and whatever else, since Phil returned, at least Clint is grateful he got that back.

Phil's silence is starting to feel like missing white noise.

"I'm just gonna," Clint mumbles, gesturing vaguely towards his bedroom, and hoping that if he just crawls under the covers and hides, Phil will leave.

"Clint," Phil says, and his voice makes Clint stop immediately. He sounds brittle, like Phil can barely get the word out, but he doesn't sound angry or disgusted or any of the things Clint was expecting. Phil sounds sad. Clint's never heard him sad before, and it makes him feel like shit. Apparently, even when he's not with Phil, Clint still makes him unhappy.

"Clint, are you okay?" Phil asks quietly, and isn't that the most ridiculous thing Clint's ever heard in his entire life? Is he okay?

Clint fights the lump in his throat, chokes down a spasm in his chest that could be a sob, and says, "I'm fine." It's a blatant lie, but he's always fine. He'll _be_ fine. He just needs to be left alone so he can process in peace, and then--

And then.

Hell if he knows.

Bucky probably won't want him anymore. Phil doesn't want him anymore. Clint just wants to crawl under the covers until the world either starts making sense again or goes away. He doesn't care which.

"Clint," Phil repeats, carefully stepping closer. Clint can't help it, he tenses up. He knows Phil, but he doesn't know this situation, doesn't know Phil's intentions, and it makes his fingers tight on his hips, his shoulders hunch up just a little, fight or flight instinct rolling up from his gut. Phil notices, must notice, because he stops a few steps away.

"Please look at me," Phil asks quietly--begs--and Clint's entire body _longs_ to do what Phil says. To do _anything_ Phil says. It's a full-body desire that's completely different from Bucky's one-word commands, and it would be so easy to yield to it, but Clint doesn't dare.

"Please," Phil asks again, and Clint has to close his eyes then.

"No."

"Why not?"

Clint swallows. "Can you just--can you please go?"

Phil sighs heavily. "If you really want me to, I will," he says, "but I don't think I should. I’m worried about you, Clint. I don't know what you were thinking."

It threatens to overflow then, everything Clint's got in him. Phil's death and return and everything that's been simmering underneath Clint's skin, held at bay with Bucky's touch and the hope that someone else out there was just as fucked up and desperate to make the world fall away as Clint.

"I don't know," Clint blurts out, opening his eyes and not really seeing, taking two erratic steps forward, and then turning back, still avoiding looking directly at Phil. He paces, mind racing, trying to make Phil understand, trying to make _himself_ understand, so this conversation can just be over already and he can go to bed.

"I don't fucking know, okay, I just--I just needed, I needed someone to understand, I needed to just fucking drop everything for just a little while, okay? I needed to," and he has to pause for a moment, take a few deep breaths. He feels like he's falling, spinning out of control, and he means to say, _I just needed someone to help me forget for a little while_ , but what comes out is, "I just needed someone to h-help me--" and nothing more.

His voice gives out and dissolves into harsh breaths, and Clint's about to lose it, break apart and shatter, when suddenly Phil is right there, arms coming around him and holding him close.

It's been years since Phil last hugged Clint. It should be an alien feeling, but it's not. Clint tenses and hesitates, surprised, for barely a split second, before he just--melts into it. Autopilot. His body knows this, his body knows Phil, and he doesn't realize he's got his hands tangled up in the lapels of Phil's jacket until he tries to press closer but can't, because his own fists are in the way.

Clint breathes hard, is aware that he's practically wheezing, but he can't quite seem to control it. So he clings to Phil and puts his chin on Phil's shoulder, using the scent of Phil and Phil's deodorant to ground himself. His eyes are still stinging, but it's a small comfort that he's not crying, at least.

Phil doesn't speak, and Clint's grateful for that. He just stays there, arms around Clint, until Clint calms down and finally feels like he can speak again.

"Clint," Phil says quietly, against the shell of Clint's ear, and the feeling of Phil's lips brushing his cheek is almost enough to make Clint come undone right then and there.

He chuckles humorlessly and remains in Phil's embrace, grateful that like this, he still doesn't have to look Phil in the eye.

"There's a slight chance I might be a bit fucked up," Clint says.

"You're not fucked up," Phil says quickly, quietly, and Clint _aches_ , because of course Phil would say that.

"I don't think you have the full picture," Clint mumbles.

"Full enough," Phil says, trying to pull back. Clint resists, but it's not like he can just continue to press against Phil like this--although part of him thinks that sounds like a great alternative to, well, everything else ever--so he yields and finally, finally faces Phil.

Clint's never seen Phil like this. There's no pity on his face, there's no disgust, but his eyes are sad and his mouth is twisted. Phil's always been good with words, much better than Clint, but the expression he's wearing on his face right now makes Clint think that maybe for the first time ever, Phil doesn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry," Clint says, wanting Phil to please stop looking so sad, but all that does is drag a frustrated huff from Phil.

"I think I'm the one who owes you an apology," Phil says. He moves back a little more, and Clint's protest is halfway out of his mouth before he realizes that Phil isn't leaving, he's just leading Clint to the couch, nudging him to sit down, before doing the same. He sits close, Clint notices, thigh pressing against Clint's. Clint lets it ground him, and squeezes his fingers tighter around Phil's.

"When I--" Phil starts, then hesitates. "When Director Fury first brought me back, nobody was supposed to know I was alive. It was a mix of several bad decisions all rolled up into one. It had been so long, and we were worried about the effects of--telling people. My--my death," and Clint doesn't choke, he doesn't, "initially served a purpose. We didn't want to risk throwing that away."

"Fuck that," Clint spits automatically, anger briefly flaring in him again.

"There was also the emotional fallout," Phil adds, eyes going soft and sad. "People had grieved. They'd moved on." Clint hears the unspoken, _You had moved on_.

He's about to protest again, but that's a whole lot of yelling he doesn't have the energy or brain power for. Instead, he closes his eyes and draws a shuddering breath. He wants to press into Phil's skin and never let go again.

"I'm very sorry," Phil says again. "I don't have words for how sorry I am."

"Just--" Clint says, hating how his voice is still so shaky, hating how he still feels like he's about to come apart at the seams. "I can't--" He's trying to put into words everything he's feeling, but failing. He still feels off kilter and unfocused.

Phil doesn't speak for a moment, but then one of his hands settles on Clint's neck, and it's like the warmth of it radiates through Clint's body.

"Kneel," Phil says, and Clint's eyes fly open. Phil's voice makes Clint shiver. It's firm, but warm, and Phil's eyes are steady and confident when Clint meets his gaze.

"You--?" he tries. "We never--"

"Doesn't mean _I_ have never," Phil says.

Something is wrong with Clint's lungs, like he can't quite catch his breath. He tries to speak, but it comes out all shaky and breathy, body wanting to obey Phil's command to kneel, but also somehow unable to move.

"You," he starts, then forgets what he wanted to say, and ends up just stuttering instead.

"I'll tell you everything," Phil promises, and for the first time since he came back, Clint believes him beyond a shred of a doubt. "First, though, I want to help you. Can I help you?"

Clint's head is still so full of cotton. He feels _scared_ , and the only thing he can think is that he wants Phil to fix it.

"Yes," he whispers. "Please."

Phil's fingers push lightly on Clint's neck, before he repeats, "Kneel."

Clint's mind blanks out, and he slides off the couch easily, feeling so grateful he could weep. He ends up at Phil's feet, and then he lets Phil's fingers guide him, push his head until he's leaning against Phil's legs, head resting on Phil's thigh. Phil's fingers move against him, carefully rubbing his neck, massaging lightly, running up through his hair and then back down again.

The horrible twisting noises in Clint's head quiet. The world comes back into focus, but in a gentle way, like waking up on a quiet, sunny morning. Phil's fingers are warm, and Clint closes his eyes and finally breathes.

They stay there for what seems like forever. Clint dimly wonders if Phil's leg is falling asleep. If it is, though, Phil doesn't seem to mind. The way his fingers move across Clint's head is comforting, soothing, almost hypnotizing.

Finding the right words finally seems possible, and still getting easier, for every second Phil's touching Clint.

"Why did we never do this?" Clint asks, which should be a dumb question. It wasn't like either of them ever knew it was an option, before.

"I don't know," Phil responds.

Clint wonders if Phil's feeling the same regret that Clint is, and he starts his next sentence without really thinking. "Can we--?" he starts to ask, but he can't bring himself to finish that sentence. It's too much to ask, too soon.

Phil's a little hesitant, but his touch never falters as he says, "We can, but--nothing like what you've been doing, Clint. It needs to be..." He pauses for a moment. "It needs to be _good_."

Clint feels ashamed, and he pushes his face further into Phil's thigh. "That's not what I--I didn't--"

Phil continues on, steadier now. "If you still want this, if you want it for real--then yes. But that's not a decision you should be making, right now."

Clint knows he's right. Right now, he's busy relearning how to fit into his own skin. But a spark of hope still lights in his chest.

"I think we have a lot of talking to do," Phil says, voice quieting.

Under normal circumstances, the idea of having a lot of talking to do would send Clint running for the hills. But now, here, safe at Phil's feet, it feels like relief.

"I missed you," Clint says quietly. "I missed you so much. Every day."

There's a long pause, a slight hitch in Phil's breathing, before Phil says, "I missed you too, Clint."

Phil's fingers drift down to Clint's jawline, and Clint lets his head be guided, tilted upwards, so Phil can lean down and kiss him. Phil's lips are warm and soft, and Clint feels something click back into place inside of him.

The kiss is brief, chaste, and when Phil pulls back, he smiles warmly at Clint, before he goes back to running his fingers through Clint's hair. Clint puts his head back down on Phil's thigh, and wonders why his face feels funny. It takes him a minute to realize it's because he's smiling.

*

It's two days later that Clint finds Bucky at the top floor bar again, but this time Bucky's sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch. He's looking out the big window at the skyline beyond, and there's no alcohol. Clint pretends he's not disappointed. He could have used a little liquid courage, right about now.

"Hey," he says, and Bucky half turns.

"Hey," he says back. He doesn't sound angry, which Clint can't decide if he's disappointed about or not.

Sitting down next to Bucky, Clint rests his elbows on his knees and pinches his lips together for a moment, trying to make the words he wants to say make sense in his own head.

"I think I owe you an apology," he starts, then frowns. "Wait. No. I _know_ I owe you an apology. And I know it still won't be enough, but--for what it's worth, I am genuinely so sorry."

"For which part?" Bucky asks, and _now_ he sounds angry. Bitter. Betrayed. "Are you sorry for fucking me under false pretenses, or for making me hurt you?"

"I don't know," Clint mumbles automatically. "Both."

"I spent a long fucking time hurting people," Bucky says, a dark warning in his voice. "I thought I was done."

"You didn't do anything to me that I didn't ask for," Clint says quickly.

"I _hurt_ you," Bucky states firmly.

"That's not really--" Clint starts to say, but Bucky hasn't had his say yet.

"That's _exactly_ what it was, Clint. Steve told me, you know. He told me about risk-aware consensual kink, about safe sane consensual, about doing--about doing what we were doing, but in a _healthy_ way."

"Steve told you?" Clint asks, blinking.

"You didn't give me a safe word. You didn't even tell me there _is_ such a thing as a safe word. What if something had gone wrong? How the fuck could you do that to me?" Bucky demands.

He stops there, letting the question hang in the air for a long time. Clint can't meet his eyes. He stares at his boots and picks at one of his shoelaces. "I don't know," he finally says, even though that's a lie. It's just easier to say than all the other things he needs to be saying. Eventually he forces the words out though, sour and hard in his mouth. "I was selfish," Clint says. "I was not in a good place--still don't think I'm in a good place really--but I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have done any of it. I shouldn't have dragged you into it."

"No," Bucky agrees, and he's back to sounding sad. "You shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry," Clint says again. He thinks he might be saying it for the rest of his life.

"I would have done it, you know," Bucky says, more quietly now. "I would have done it the real way, the _right_ way, if you'd just told me."

Clint blinks against wetness in his eyes. "I know," he agrees, even though that's a little hard to wrap his mind around.

Bucky hesitates for a moment, and then says in a small voice, "I liked it."

"I know," Clint says again, a new wave of shame washing over him.

"I liked the control," Bucky continues, and Clint vividly remembers being in this room with Bucky, and Bucky saying _Control_ in a completely different voice.

"You can still have that," Clint offers, not talking about himself and being certain Bucky knows it.

"I know," Bucky confirms, then carefully adds, "But not with you."

"No," Clint agrees. "Not with me."

He doesn't ask or comment on who Bucky could have that control with. It's none of his business anymore. Probably never was.

"Can you ever forgive me?" he asks instead, has to ask, even though his voice breaks on the sentence and he still can't meet Bucky's eyes.

Bucky's silent for a long time, before sighing deeply.

"Give me time," he eventually says, and that's the best Clint can hope for, really. Better than he'd expected.

*

It's a few weeks later when Clint hitches a ride with Tony, not because he has to, but just because he wants to. They arrive just on time, Tony carefully setting Clint down outside the building's main entrance, faceplate popping up so he can squint at Clint in the sunlight.

"You gonna be okay? Want me to wait?"

"If I needed a chaperone, I woulda brought Phil," Clint says, smiling a little to take the bite out of his words. He doesn't say _I'm fine_ , because he knows better by now.

Tony puts a heavy gauntlet carefully on Clint's shoulder and smiles at him, surprisingly earnest. "You look better," Tony remarks. "I mean, you still look pretty fucked up, but no more than the rest of us, I mean."

Clint doesn't know how to respond to that. "Thanks?" he ventures.

"See you back at the tower," Tony says, faceplate coming down, before he steps back and then takes off with a whine of repulsor engines.

Clint watches as he disappears into the skies, and then turns to face the building. He fights the impulse to run away, and heads inside before he can lose his nerve.

Dr. Clock's office is pretty small, but it's a corner office, and she's got big windows along two of the walls. It helps Clint feel better. They're on the third floor, which is high enough Clint can see the clear skies outside, but low enough to the ground he doesn't feel trapped. The parts of her office that aren't windows, are nothing but bookshelves, filled to the brim with books. Clint eyes them as he takes a seat, and pretends he doesn't feel awkward as shit.

Dr. Clock, for her part, doesn't speak or look impatient, she just waits patiently as he gets situated, lets him look his fill and take his time, a slight smile on her face. When he finally gets the courage to look directly at her, her smile widens just a touch.

"So, uh," Clint says, rubbing his neck a little and slouching down in the chair. "I've never done this before. How does this work?"

Dr. Clock shrugs a little. "There's no rules for this. You can talk if you want to, or not."

"You don't care as long as you get paid?" Clint guesses, half joking but half not.

"It's not so much about that," Dr. Clock says, "though Ms. Potts does compensate me generously, yes. Mostly, though, I just want you to feel comfortable in our sessions."

Clint nods a little, unsure. "I see," he says. "Did, uh. Did anyone tell you why I'm here?"

"No," Dr. Clock says. "I figure you'll tell me when you're ready."

For a moment, Clint considers standing up and walking out. He's not sure how to do this. He's not sure if he _can_ do this. But he knows that Bucky started his sessions two weeks ago, and Clint knows he needs the help, too. He thinks about Phil's face, Phil's smile, Phil's lips against his own, Phil's fingers stroking down the back of his neck, and Clint takes a deep breath.

"I--it was a few years ago," Clint starts hesitantly. "A few days before the battle of New York. I was there when--when Loki arrived."

It's as good a place to start as any. It's time to start setting things right.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Clint and Bucky engage in a sexual relationship with rough sex and d/s play, but they never do any kink negotiation, and Bucky is not aware of (and thus not able to provide any) aftercare for Clint. Bucky would have consented even if he had known the specifics about what they were doing, but this is not explicitly made clear until near the end of the fic.
> 
> Clint is not in a good headspace for the majority of this fic, and does not necessarily treat those around him well.


End file.
